


hide in plain sight.

by D3moira



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Physical Abuse, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow Burn, look he's a problematic asshole and the oc is a sasspot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8606098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D3moira/pseuds/D3moira
Summary: You had learned long ago how to move between groups; you learned how to watch and listen; you learned how to be unseen. So what the fuck do you do when someone does see you? (Dark tones aplenty, sorry my dudes. Rarely graphic, but I will put a warning on any specific chapter that may infringe.)





	1. stripes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an ill-advised all-nighter. I just wanted to try my hand at a Canon x Reader story, and I wanted to contribute to the Negan Thirst Train. Let me know how you like it!

The smell of dirt was impossible to ignore, thick ropes of manure and cracked stems fresh in the air around you. With how low the sun hung over the warehouse, you knew that the work day was close to over. You had the earth stuck under your nails, in your jeans, in every little wrinkle on your hands. It would take forever to scrub your hands clean each day, but you couldn’t do much about it.

You’d had garden gloves with flowers embroidered into the hems, but they were missing. They had been for the better part of a week, so you’d stop hoping they’d be returned. Some jackass had taken them no doubt, though you couldn’t imagine why. They were a dirty old pair of gloves and were worth no points.

It wasn’t a big deal, not enough to point it out to Neil, the man who stood by the greenhouse door. He always had his gun out, for kicks. He’d point it at people and laugh when they flinched. It was better if you flinched.

He was the one who’d stolen them, you knew it.

Asshole.

“Hey, Stripes.” Aimee smiled at you, her own gloves ditched onto the pavement beside her. “You think they’ll have that puddin’ for dinner?”

“Only important people get pudding.”

“Yeah well, Tracker scores me some when I ask nice.”

Aimee stood up, and you followed suit. You stretched out to your full height, arms above your head and your spine in motion. You looked up to Aimee, as she beamed down at you.

“I’ll take th’stuff back, you go wash your hands.” She plucked up the basket of tools, to lug it back to the shed. They took away points if any tools went missing, especially sharper tools. You watched her go, your hands smoothed over your shirt. You were excited to go back to your cot and sleep, but first you needed to get all the muck off your hands.

You to the sink, where there was soap and towels. So you could clean yourself up for dinner at least.

Everything stuck to you, dirt, clippings, so much gross stuff. In truth you had never been one for gardens, before. You’d had to learn to work here, to earn points. There was a sense of satisfaction in it, though, to see your hard work turn up in the marketplace. The crops had grown well as of late, thanks to the new supplies.

It helped to have healthy seeds, rather than resurrect the lettuce with a death wish on repeat.

“Th’fuck is stripes?”

Oh great.

Neil.

“Just a nickname, that’s all.” You stilled your hands, the wet towel still clutched in hand.

“You a tiger or somethin’?” Neil stood a few yards away, his thumbs hooked into the hostler that sported his gun.

“No,” you snapped, defensive. You turned to face him, and he frowned in kind. It would be nice to tell him to go fuck himself, but the words couldn’t surface. “S’just, Aimee calls me it.” You dipped your head, attention shifted the sink.

The heat made it impossible to wear anything more than a tank top, which you’d tried to clean up. This felt awful, the warmth, the attention, all of it made you feel ill.

“Cause of that, huh?” He pointed at you, at the scarred flesh on your upper arm.

The nickname had started as a joke, an allusion to the five stripes across your right bicep. A house you’d been resting in had caught on fire one night. You had to climb down from the second floor, and through a fence. The only problem was that the fence had been white hot and branded you --

“Yeah.” You ground out, jaw clenched.

“Must’ve been real hot, huh. Whatever did that.”

“Mhm.”

God, speaking of hot, summer had hit its peak. The Sanctuary boiled the same as any other place she'd been. The problem was that you knew there had to be air conditioners somewhere in this place.

There was a crunch of gravel as Aimee approached. She was older, ex-military, and Neil respected her. Or feared her. "Hey sweetie." She smiled to you and ignored him altogether. He watched her, then you, only to back up a few steps.

"Later Stripes." There was a grunt as a farewell, as Neil turned to retreat.

You remained silent, not eager to get on anyone’s bad side. He didn’t have a right to call you that, but you suspected few people knew your name. You didn’t feel the need to introduce yourself to everyone, and Aimee stuck to the nickname. She’d called you that while you were unconscious, and you never corrected her.

Others called you girl or nothing at all.

“What a creep.” She hissed, her hand settled onto your shoulder.

She had helped you that night when she’d found you with your lungs full of ash and smoke. Her and her husband, Tracker. You’d lost your group then if it was even a group. A few men, their wives, a couple of children, but you didn’t know what had happened to them. Aimee and Tracker had roles between them, soldier and medic.

What the fuck were you?

“You comin’?”

“I am.” You tucked your hair behind your ear, a sigh loosed from low down in your gut.

“Don’t worry about him.”

You smiled at Aimee. She still had dirt smeared on her nose and an enthused smile on her lips.

“What’re you up to?”

“Not a thing.” Aimee smiled in a knowing way, her hand settled at her hip. "Excited for dinner is all."

You were at least glad to have cleaner hands now. Your clothes were a lost cause though. You had spares, a luxury afforded to you within the walls. All that kept you in motion was the thought of dinner. It'd arrive on a metal tray, sure. Even then it was always so much more delicious than under-cooked roadkill.

The walk to the mess hall was well-guarded. There was a guard every so often, either on patrol or kicked up on a chair with a radio. The Saviors, the people who went out into the world to find people, they served as a police force of sorts. They’d sometimes bring back supplies, or they’d bring back people.

You recognized one. He didn’t say anything to you, he didn’t even notice you, but that was fine. It was better to go unnoticed in this place, you thought. Besides, he didn’t remember. The Saviors brought in so many people, and he’d found your group three months back.

Even if three people wasn’t a group, they’d invited you, and you’d accepted. They recognized the supplies tucked in Tracker’s belt, and in his pack. They could always use more medics, or so they said.

The hall stuck out from the rest of the buildings by the absolute squawk of people. There was a loud energy within it at meal times, though it varied with the mood of the place. It would be loud, like this, or somber. It all depended on the mood of the Saviors.

And their mood depended on Negan.

A boisterous crack of laughter sounded, obnoxious and intense. It was unmistakable, as no one here had the gall to laugh so loudly. No one except the king, the one they'd all pledged their allegiance to like he was a damn flag.

“Oh man, you gotta tell me that one again, about that guy that just shat himself -- dinner, right?”

“Yeah.” Tracker smiled, at ease with Negan despite the volume and the baseball bat. He often spoke with Tracker, as the man was often out on runs with the rest. He was good at quick patches, and he had saved a few lives.

Aimee set her arm around your shoulders, to bring you closer to her. Ahead of you was Tracker, as tall as Aimee but so slight. He worked in medicine and had been in Iraq for a time -- but he looked so tiny compared to Negan. Everyone did. There was an exchange between them men, at a lower register. Negan shifted, the width of his shoulders now occluded Tracker. You missed any chance of details, but you could hear a buzz between them.

Something about dinner.

“S’good, s’good -- tonight.” He jerked his head towards the mess hall, wherein he had a table to himself and his best people. “Gonna eat any time soon?”

“Was waitin’ for the missus.” He pointed towards Aimee and yourself, though you wished he hadn’t. He jerked his chin forward, stubbled jawline edged towards yourself and Aimee.

Negan turned at the prompt, his gaze in line with Aimee and yourself.

“Right, right, ball and chain.” Negan narrowed his eyes, a smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “And her own little ball and chain.”

Aimee laughed, her nose wrinkled up at the joke.

You kept in motion because Aimee willed you forward. You had been here almost three months and not once made eye contact with Negan. Not since he’d asked you who you were -- when you had said you were Negan. He had walked around the three of you, and once satisfied you understood, he'd never spoken to you again. He'd talked to Tracker, as his men had put two and two together over the med kit. Aimee was left alone, as the Saviors had plenty to buff out their ranks.

But that hadn’t been about you, not even a little.

The allegiance sworn was to Negan at large, and to his whims. So far that included garden duty. To say you were Negan was to accept the role given to you.

Much like when you'd first sworn in, you went quiet. You stared at the ground ahead of you, not shy, just annoyed. You wished that Aimee had let you go into the mess hall on your own. You avoided Negan because he spoke so much while he said nothing at all, and it sat wrong with you.

And you wanted to be alive, not a martyr. There was nothing gained through rebellion. You could only hope that Tracker and Aimee would leave with you one day, once they got fed up with Negan.

“Why’s she looking so sour? Someone piss in her cornflakes?”

“What the fuck?” You breathed, brows furrowed.

“Sorry? Did y’say something?”

There was an exchange of attention between Tracker, Aimee, Negan, you... But you didn’t want this. You swallowed hard, on edge from the heat, from Neil, from the lack of your gloves and the wilt of your lettuce. You wanted to get away from Aimee, who bore down on you in the heat, and away from Negan who bore down in every other way.

You weren’t good at this. Not like Aimee, or Tracker, or any of the people in the Sanctuary.

“Um, no -- ”

Negan kept the smile on his face, at ease by your lie. He smacked a hand onto Tracker’s shoulder, who set in motion. “C’mon, the whole family’s invited -- got some space at the big boy’s table.”

Fuck no.

You stared at Aimee, who ignored your gaze. A dozen questions whirled through your mind as you walked alongside her. You had escaped from under her arm at least. Curtains sectioned the hall into areas, with Negan’s table hidden. The curtains came down when there was a feast.

Or so you were told. There had been no reason to feast so long as you’d lived here.

There was an assortment of foods splayed out on the long table. There was fresh produce, much of which you had handled no doubt, as well as meats. So much meat, actually. More than you’d seen in ages. There were cans of soda, wine, water, and -- pudding.

You cast a sidelong glance at Aimee, who was focused elsewhere.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Dinner,” Tracker responded, a weary smile on his face.

There were enough places for twelve people to sit, but so far it was only you four. You’d never been here before, though Tracker came for dinner when Negan asked. It was often before Tracker was due to head out with a large group, out to the old malls or warehouses.

But that didn’t explain why you were here.

You looked from Aimee to Tracker, mindful to avoid Negan at all costs. He was busy at the curtain with someone, a guard, but they hurried off in a moment’s notice. Aimee and Tracker had sat at the end at Negan’s right, while he took the head.

You moved to sit down by Aimee, but Negan tutted his tongue. “C’mere.”

What the fuck.

Your jaw locked into place, and you followed the request without question. You had learned it was better to do as you were told, even if you didn’t want to. It was easier to work with what you knew. You had also learned long ago that sometimes people just loved power.

You took the seat to his left, your legs uncomfortable no matter what position you settled them into. You tried to cross them, to tuck them beneath you, but it didn’t matter. This felt wrong like you were on the chopping block. Had you done something?

“So.”

Your attention snapped to Negan.

“You know how this places works.” He snagged a wad of bread, to cut it open. He buttered it in silence, with the occasional glance to you.

“Um, yeah. Everything’s yours. And everyone, they’re yours too -- right?”

“That’s right.” Negan sent a lush grin your way, cheeks creased with deep smile lines. “Clever -- I like that.”

“I don’t feel that clever right now.” You narrowed your eyes across at Aimee and Tracker, who were in low talks themselves.

Negan’s hand stilled, and it felt like every move he made had so much weight to it. You could see Lucille, propped up against the wall behind him, close but not in hand. “Oh ex-fucking-cuse me -- I assumed these two laid shit out for you.” He looked to you, eyebrow raised. “No?”

“No.” You folded your hands in your lap, to hide the dirt that lingered around your nails.

Negan shot the pair a disappointed look. “I’m impressed. I figured you’d at least warn her. No? Fuck. You guys are good. No wonder I let you come sit up here -- you are good people.” He parted his lips with the press of his tongue, an elbow set on the edge of the table. The roll of bread remained clutched in hand, though he shifted it with his forefinger and thumb. They hadn't said a word to her, not a hint. She had sensed Aimee was amiss, but there was no mention of Negan, or this dinner.

“Look, I can just go. I’m awful tired, and I’m all dirty. I don’t wanna intrude or, impose." You pushed at the table, only to find yourself stopped midway up with only a look.

“What do you.” Negan watched you sit back down, though your hands remained framed on the edges of the table.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s a doctor.” He jabbed a finger at Tracker. “She’s good with a gun.” Another jab, though Aimee responded with too much vim. “So what the fuck kept you alive. You good at, what? Digging?”

You looked at your hands, your dirty nails and stained skin, and tucked them away.

“No. You are really fucking good at bein’ invisible, that’s fucking what.” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “You’ve been here three damn months, and I don’t know your name. Don’t know where you were before, what age you are, skills, nothing. Neither do they. So what the fuck?”

"Doesn't matter, does it?" You stared at him once again, unsure where this roundabout conversation began or ended.

"It most certainly does fucking matter." He still had a grin on his face, but it bled into his sharp tone. "That kinda shit is invaluable. You know how hard it is to keep an eye on every little thing in this place? S'fucked, girl, real fucked. So I need people like you, who can't do shit, to work with me."

"Can't do shit?"

Negan dropped his head towards his shoulder, to affect sarcasm without words. "Can't protect yourself, that is."

You sank into your seat. The accusation that you couldn't do anything for yourself offended you. You were capable; you were. You'd been on your own at the start, and you'd moved from group to group. The lack of attachment to others had been a blessing. It allowed you to slide between settlements, and you never remained anywhere for long.

Maybe he had a point. People didn't notice you.

But he had?

"You did it to yourself, y'know. Got these two t'bring you along, get you here, and yeah, you do your garden shit." Negan settled into lavish bites around each word. "I don't like squandered potential. Almost as bad as theft, really. What are you even doing now? Workin' the garden, right? That really how you wanna spend the rest of your life, elbow deep in actual fucking shit?"

Across from you was Tracker and Aimee, who had retracted into their own world. You were lucky to have their kindness even in passing, and you felt that all the more now. They were lucky. They had been a couple, lost together but at least together. They’d met through the military, Aimee had said.

You still hadn’t heard the full story.

No one did that anymore, no one bothered with the details about where you’d been before. People cared about that at the start.

You had lost your parents at the beginning when they’d never come home. You had endured another messy fight with Alex, a boyfriend who never acted like one, and you needed the space. They had gone out to a meeting for something, you couldn’t remember, but you knew what happened next. You waited for as long as you could, but your neighbor a few doors down had come through your kitchen window with a knife -- you had to run.

And that was the problem. You’d been running for months now, maybe years, but you’d never been able to stop. There were moments, blissful moments, where you’d take a deep breath and feel your muscles relax… And then there’d be a gunshot.

Or walkers.

Negan cleared his throat, arms folded across his chest. "Let's start with your name."


	2. earn what you take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave the reader character a name, but it's like a codename. Only because 'Y/N' throws me off as a reader so I avoid it. I will address this as the story continues!

“Greer.”

“That your name?”

You nodded.

Negan watched you, his hands folded in front of his face.

It was the name you went by, and you hoped that Negan didn't press the lie. You hadn’t said your real name in months and you refused to use it. There was no reason, none you could point out, but you didn’t want it known. The walkers, they’d been…

Easy wasn’t the word.

But you didn’t shift away to the name Greer until after that. It had been your name before your neighbor had come at you with a knife. It had been your name when you’d first killed someone alive.

“The fuck kinda name is that?”

You shrugged, your gaze turned down.

“No fucking wonder you go by -- what, Stripes? That what it was?”

You felt the weight of his gaze on your arm, where the burns ran like ranks on a dress uniform. It was your skin, same as always, just -- different. Maybe that was why, too.

You would never have killed someone before. You would have never gouged out someone’s brain matter with a fire poker. You would have never clubbed a man to death with a rifle.

The butt of the gun could be fatal with enough force, you thought with absent recognition.

These were the things Greer had learned. You would have never known them before.

"Alright, Greer. Shit, couldn't be like, Dani or Alex or something, could you." Negan seemed satisfied with his prize, in spite of how he’d complained about the name itself. It meant alert, or watchful. It had meant any number of words, but it stuck to that realm.

Vigilant.

You had bunkered down in a house as you tore pages out of a book. it had been a name book, one for parents in search of that perfect name. There was a crib, unused. Toys, also unused.

Both made excellent kindling.

The ashes remained, but the name came with you. It sounded unlike any you’d heard before, and it suited you now. It reminded you of how blood clung under your nails, and of how dirt tasted. Greer had seen all the shit and blood and rot in this new world.

The name helped kept you alerted to the world around you. That was the logic, to help you keep a distance from the world as much as the people. And you had kept distant, though you flowed in and out of groups as numbers shifted. You could move on your own, but it grew solitary.

"You're thinking, shit, what the fuck does Negan want with me?" He spoke on your behalf, and you didn't see fit to speak. "Yeah, well, I like what you do -- you know how to keep your mouth shut, and you don't talk shit to the guards. People here are always fucking bitching about the shit going on, but I haven't gotten a single complaint about you. So what the fuck, I figure, since you're not a fucking blip on the goddamn radar, may as well use that shit, right?"

"That shit being, me, right?"

Negan grinned. "Yeah, that shit is you."

You looked to Aimee and Tracker, brow raised. You wondered if they had approached Negan, or he had approached them. They were in the midst of dinner, in conversation. Tracker had been away on an escort mission. So far as Aimee had said, they had gone to scout that Alexandria settlement.

Negan had focused in on the meal before him, and you had lost your appetite. You forced yourself to eat, with the knowledge this food was too good to miss, but it tasted no better. You didn't know what this job meant to you, and you didn't like the surprise of it all. You hadn't expected Negan to show interest in you, not even in passing. This was an entire dinner to inform you that you were now a rat.

"How it'll work," Negan's tongue thrashed against a string of cheese in his mustache. You hid your disdain, but only just. "Is that, sometimes I'll call you in, ask you what you've heard. Or if you got something real fucking juicy, you get to come visit me."

"Won't that be obvious?"

Negan gave you a look, teeth bared and expression wolfish. "Fuck no. Plenty of women wanna have alone time with me." His laugh came from deep inside his core, too much to be jovial. "Are you new here, I swear to fucking God."

You winced at the words, unsure what about them struck you. Right. No shit, he's a fucking womanizer. As if that wasn't common knowledge. You didn't know how much of it was true, but he had three wives -- or four. It changed as girls moved on, in death or into other circumstances. Some left, some vanished. It didn't concern you.

But it concerned you now, you guessed.

"Right." You tongued your lips apart. "Is there like, a password?"

"Password?" Negan laughed again, as he stuffed bacon into his maw. It was the last of the food on his plate, and your time with him had come to an end.

"Yeah, so I can see you?" It wasn't common for people to get one-on-one time with Negan. Not unless they had fucked up.

Negan kicked out from his seat. "Go up to a guard, by my office," he was up on his feet, napkin in hand. "Say that you wanna fuck Negan."

You choked on the peas you had hand reared, only to become aware of the irony in your panic. "Hell no, I'm not -- "

It occurred too late that Negan wasn't used to the word 'no'. Aimee and Tracker had stopped their chatter, only to glance at you. They were your friends, sure, but this was a matter of survival. All you had was yourself and that weight bottomed out in you.

"Look, you're new to this spy shit, sure, I get it, but you're fucking useless to me unless you do what I say. Right?" He shifted forward, teeth bared now with anger rather than amusement. His hand took to the back of your seat, to angle you better. "You say that shit, and it's a surefire way to get some quality fucking time with yours truly. All you gotta do is drop your report, and then fuck off."

You nodded, pressed back into your seat as much as you could.  
"Don't like my plan? Think you're smarter than me? Got a better fucking idea?"

You shook your head at each question. There was the distance of height, but he'd doubled over to impress upon you how serious this was.

"Say it."

You tipped your head, unsure what the request was.

"Be a good girl, or this shit ends right now -- I do not have the fucking time to train you." Negan squared his jaw, eyes narrowed.

"I want to fuck Negan." You said it with as level a voice as you could manage, despite how angry you felt.

"Atta girl!" By luck, Negan's anger cracked into utter delight. He smacked his hand against the back of your chair, a grin split where before he'd had a deep frown. "Fuck me you shall, sweetheart, so long as your reports are worth my fucking time." He turned, unperturbed by the absolute fear that he'd implanted into your chest. "Tracker, you and the boys'll head out again tomorrow -- Aimee. You wanna head out, too?"

Aimee shook her head. "Pretty sure it took, according to Doc."

"Congratulations to you two then! Fuck, a new bouncing baby for the Sanctuary, happy fucking days." He settled his hands onto his hips, a look shot sideways to you. "You're gonna be an aunt."

You took another bite of food. There was as much anger as there was fear now inside you.

Despite the lack of response, Negan swaggered away. He seemed satiated with the level of control he had exerted upon the three of you. You watched as the impossible width and height of him vanished, the empty space a welcome sight.

The silence remained as you ate, though Aimee and Tracker both had their attention on you. The way they worked in unison drove you insane. You had arrived at the Sanctuary with Aimee and Tracker. That couldn’t be his real name, you had thought.

You tried to loosen his real name from his tongue, but he never budged. He said he didn’t like his real name, and Aimee kept it secret, too. You gave up on it over time, as they called you Stripes. They never asked for your real name, and so you ceased the questions.

They were lucky.

They had been a couple. They were lost together but at least together. They’d met through the military, Aimee had said. You still hadn’t heard the full story.

No one asked for details about where you’d been before. People cared about that at the start.

"He told us not to tell you."

Your hand stilled on the table, one on either side of your plate. "What was that about?" The mess hall was loud in a distant way, not as much as it usually was.

"We don't know." Aimee began, her hands linked with Tracker's. "He just saw you with me. He knows me, I used to go out on runs, but, I stopped, 'cause -- " She paused, a shake to her voice. "Well, you heard. I'm gonna have a kid."

"You should have told me. About the pregnancy, and this dinner -- don't keep secrets from me." You hated this. You hated the moments with people where they let you down, where they kept things from you to keep you safe. All it did was fuck you over.

"I didn't know it was gonna be about you, or spy shit. He said he wanted to have us for dinner, to celebrate the baby. 'Cause Tracker does so much for the Sanctuary." Her voice was defensive. "When he said to bring you, I figured because you were our friend."

"Are you that stupid?" You whispered back, brows furrowed. "When the fuck has he ever been nice?"

"Negan's been good to us." Aimee stared at you with wide eyes. You felt a pang of regret, but only just. "To all of us."

"He did this for a reason." Tracked explained, his voice low and soft. "Guess he wanted to see how you'd react, without warning. Under stress. Made us watch, to make us accountable. Maybe a test."

"Yeah, a test. Maybe." You ran a hand through your hair, flushed and sweaty from the day of work. You were drenched in your own sweat and exhausted from weeding the garden. "I didn't mean to snap."

"It's okay." Aimee pushed away her plate. "Might go to the library, look at some books." She looked to Tracker. "You wanna come?"

You went for the exit without a second glance. You didn't care if Tracker went with Aimee or what. You were friends, or so you thought. Why hadn't Aimee told you that she was pregnant? Why hadn't she warned you about this dinner? It made your blood boil, and the summer air had already driven you to the edge. It was early evening, and you were full for the first time in a long while.

What a fucking asshole, you thought.

There was no fucking way you were going to go up to a guard and say that. Not a damn chance. You palmed your sweaty forehead, eager to head for the showers. There was a communal one, sectioned by gender. Male, female, and a co-ed where anyone could go.

Before you could head there, you needed to collect a change of clothes. You palmed through your footlocker, with an unpolite shove to your little worn dress. You snatched up your spare jeans and shirt, aware that you'd have to wash your current clothes in the shower.

It made you laugh to think of all the clothes you'd had before.

The showers were quiet, as everyone was at dinner. Dinner took a long time to pass, as people had different jobs and there was only so many tables. There were lines and rations, and those with more points to throw around ate first. She rarely finished so early, so the empty shower block was a damn blessing.

There was even hot water, which you relished for all of five seconds. It was too hot for a proper warm shower, so you opted to a cooler temperature. The dinner had been amazing, in the food and the seclusion, but it had also terrified you.

The thud of footfall didn't faze you. You kept your underwear on as you showered, and maneuvered it as you saw fit. It was an older woman, deep creases forged in her face and a sag to her posture. Neither of you made eye contact, though you kept aware of her presence.

It was a short while later until more people began to appear, and you took your leave. You washed your dirty clothes under the water, as much as you could. You could hang them up by your cot, which you shared with another girl around your age.

You dodged past person after person, who bumped or brushed by you and the words resurfaced in your mind. You were invisible and you went unnoticed. You kicked them aside in favor of the anger, because at least that gave you a direction.

There was a parcel on your cot when you arrived. It popped with gaudy wrapping paper in bright pink against the soft gray of your blanket. You set your clothes across your footlocker, to let them dry -- and you worried.

It could be a prank.

You had one friend, Charlie, he worked with Tracker. He never told you stories about the old world, and you enjoyed that. The most you knew about him was that he'd had two kids and no issues with murder. He was tall, Irish, and the type to leave this shit on her bed.

He was the only Savior you knew by name, and you liked that.

You did not like the look of this parcel, though.

You approached it, tentative hands outstretched to it. It was wrapped like a birthday present, like the ones you'd get before. You picked the tape apart with your blunt nails, lip sneered as the paper fell away.

A shirt.

The fuck?

You searched the parcel for a note before anything else. There was a piece of paper with a watermark, a fancy 'N' with some awful font. On the flipside bore a message; 'you looked like shit'.

You screwed up the note, to throw it at the wall.

The shirt was a cotton one, button up with a collar. It was deep red in color and incredible in quality. It even bore a tag still, as if it'd been freshly purchased for her.

The digit was four numbers, and would have have bought a laptop in the old world. It was simple and sweet, but born of blood. You wondered how many people died on the run to fetch some clothes, so Negan could show off.

Because even without his name, the rest of it screamed of his mark.

Your threadbare shirt in faded blue had come from a burnt down chainstore. You had been in search of some food, and lucked out. People didn't get luxury in this new world, or so you had thought.

The Sanctuary had changed much of what you had thought of this new world. There was hints of the old, in how people obeyed Negan and in how they disguised their sins. People were always vicious, and always violent. The walkers gave them an avenue to exert their aggression.

Or in your case, they had an avenue to exert their control.

The words 'earn what you take' echoed in your mind. Not even a day into this shtick, and you already owed him. The dinner, the shirt, the time spent with him -- because that was earned too, no doubt.

What a fucking asshole.

You tossed the shirt into the footlocker at the end of your bed. You didn't need it. You didn't ask for it.

And if that was an issue, then he could say so.

All you wanted to do was sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Consider leaving a comment or kudos. <3


	3. to be blooded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Thank you everyone for the comments!

Sleep came and went, and in the midst of it all you convinced yourself that dinner had been a dream. You had eaten, sure, but the conversation with Negan? That was a terrible nightmare, brought on by the Virginian heat. There was no way known that you’d been drafted into some secret spy thing.

So screw it.

Your bunk was by a window, and so the sun pricked through your lids as it did each day. The Sanctuary lodgings were like a summer camp. Maybe it was how each cot sat close to another, and in how you shared your space. It varied, some spots were more shadowed, some were in corners, there was an economy to the spots.

Yours was okay. Not awful, but it was close to the latrines, and that sucked. You were out most of the day, so it wasn’t a huge problem, but sometimes it could be unbearable. Those were the nights that Aimee let you stay with her and Tracker.

They had a room. Oh God, they had one of the good rooms. Anyone with a useful skill and a decent grasp of Negan’s rule got a better room. They had a fucking fridge, an air conditioner… You were jealous. But you also didn’t want to crowd their space. Each member of the Saviors got a room like that, so long as they went on runs. They either shared with their partner or they used to fuck their way through the Sanctuary.

Everything came back to sex if you talked for long enough. Sex, mortality, food, love… In most cases, these were what grounded people in the world. Without arts, science, the global scale of things, there was only the basics. People had regressed to kill or be killed, fuck or be fucked.

That was the issue. Sort of, anyway. Charlie was a friend you’d made through the Sanctuary, one of the men Tracker and Aimee worked with. He had a squad of a few guys, five in total, a few women, but it rotated. But Charlie was an unknown. He had a room, but Tracker said he didn’t use it the way others did. And he was nice to you. He’d offered for you to stay with him, but…

You couldn’t.

“You skip dinner?”

“No,” you slumped out of bed. You had your work in the gardens today, as you did most days. “I ate, just, different table.” Across from you was Sunni, a girl with dark skin and large hair. She also had the peculiar ability to be happy in the mornings, no matter how late she stayed out.

“With Charlie?”

You cringed, the question so innocent it shoved you back to high school. “Nah, just on my own.”

“Right, sure.” Sunni brushed her hair back from her face, the thick black locks bundled into a ponytail. “I saved you a bread roll, since I didn’t know what had happened to you.”

“Sunni -- “

“Shh, it’s fine, they wouldn’t find it.”

You exhaled, low and annoyed. They let people stockpile toiletries, supplies that wouldn’t perish. But to horde food was a massive no-no. It was a hygiene thing, and you suspected to keep people here. If you stockpiled enough food, you could run, you could survive.

You knew, you’d tried it once before.

“We can split it,” she had brought it out from inside a sock, and you watched with amusement. “It’s clean.”

“Okay,” you scrubbed at your eyes and accepted the stale roll with the other. You wolfed it down in three bites, your cheeks puffed with the size of it all.

Which would have been fine, were it not for the tromp of boots against concrete towards your cots.

There was a panicked moment where you considered your options; spit it out into your hand, or swallow it. You opted for the latter, though your eyes watered as it was nowhere near chewed. Sunni had been smart, with small bites. She’d tucked the sock away again, her head turned away towards the curtain.

But the footsteps rose and fell, past you both. The guards hadn’t even looked towards you, in talks about something else. You exchanged a look with Sunni, who smiled. You were less impressed. But it had been your own fault as much as hers, and it meant you could skip out on breakfast.

“Laundry has been a bitch, I tell yah.” Sunni smiled as always, an idle wave of her hand; the one that had a missing pinky. Stolen supplies, she’d told you when you’d first looked at it. “See you tonight -- if you decide to show your face.”

You grunted in acknowledgment, a private smile on your lips. There was no way you’d go to dinner tonight, only if you could head there extra early or extra late. Sunni didn’t need to know that, and you listened as she headed off. Others in your area were awake too, out to their jobs. Most people worked with cleaning or checking through the new supplies.

You worked the garden, as you had since you’d arrived. You didn’t even acknowledge the spy thing -- it wasn’t _real_.

You pushed up from your cot, still dressed from the night before. The wet clothes you’d washed yourself were set on the end of your bed; laundry service had a cost, and you didn’t see a point to it. Most were too tired to wash their own things after their work, or they went out on runs. They could afford that. You spit shined your shoes and rubbed out the dirt stains, aware that you at least owed less to the place.

Every fucking point mattered. If you got sick? If you couldn’t work? God, you didn’t even want to think about it. You put on your boots and headed out, the heat from outside on the uptick. It had been hot the day before, and the week before, and you knew it’d have to rain eventually.

The muggy heat would break and you’d find sweet relief.

The walk to the garden plots went by without a hitch, save for a rabble in the distance. One of the prisoner’s had chatted back from what you saw, one had _spat_ , and -- a gunshot. You inhaled a sharp breath, eyes averted from the atrocity. You knew they never shot to kill, not in a way that would prevent further servitude. It was always a torso shot, or abdomen. Then you were put onto a spike.

You cast a sidelong glance to the huddle of people, most prisoners still while one was on the ground. You saw a high five, a couple of laughs, and then a dim silence returned to the compound.

Or was it a warehouse?

The whole place reeked of industrialism, which struck you as funny. The points system and the autocracy made things into some capitalist wet dream. The world outside was free, so long as you could fight for it. Here, you only had to beg and behave.

Or not, as you saw with the man now impaled.

Idiot.

The chain link fence covered in a tarp was your home away from home, with the gates split wide open. You recognized people, vague names and faces danced through your mind. You saw Neil in his nasty armchair, one that had been acquired from a settlement long ago. It had moss on parts of it, like a boulder but all plush instead of hard.

"Hey Stripes."

You looked at Neil with disinterest.

"Aw c'mon, don't give me attitude."

You didn’t linger on Neil, afraid that he’d pass a worse comment your way. You looked over the tools in their metal basket. There were rusted trowels and dulled secateurs. The sharper tools were reserved for those who had proved themselves trustworthy.

You hadn’t earned that yet.

Right -- plants.

You set your teeth against your inner cheek, mindful of your surroundings. You could hear people in conversation, nothing deep or interesting. A mention of breakfast, of a birthday that was on the way, and of old stories from the world before.

You tried to focus as you turned over the dirt, to loosen up the soil. There was a whole scheme to each garden bed, instructions written onto a big wooden board.

You knew your place.

You felt at home here, even with the rotten manure and the earthy smell of dirt,. It wasn’t a great smell, sure, but it didn’t smell of the dead. You knew this was for the betterment of the place, and that some lucky soul would benefit. You could only hope it was one of the good ones, who helped the Sanctuary at large.

“Hey, shh, shut the fuck up.”

You stopped, eyes narrowed at the dirt beneath your hands.

That was Neil, but… You lifted your chin to shift your hair from your eyes. The motion allowed you to peek over your shoulder to confirm. It was Neil, yeah, and another man you didn’t know by name. He had a gun by his hip so that suggested status here, and trust, but you couldn’t make out much more.

The scuffle of feet on gravel drew your attention. You rolled your chin lower and sideways to watch as they went to a corner. You narrowed your eyes, to glance at the others within the garden. No one had turned or noticed, and you squinted. There was a shift of shadows behind the tool shed.

Your stomach dropped; Negan had said that if you heard anything juicy, you had to come tell him.

This wasn’t your job. You looked over your dirt-encrusted hands with distaste. There was literal shit caked into your palms, since some asshole had stolen your gloves. You deserved better than this.

You pushed up from the ground, and no one noticed. No one ever noticed. They all focused on their own lot and their own lives, and that left you like a ghost.

Stripes, Greer, ghost, whatever the fuck others wanted to call you.

And if you were to report in on the shittiness of this place, to make it a better place? Then you better believe that Neil had asked for it. You stepped with your outstep inwards, cautious not to knock up gravel. There were rows of vegetables laid out, some taller some shorter, enough to offer an excuse.

You palmed across the dirt in each box, to yank at weeds that weren’t an issue. You busied yourself with some browned leaves. Your head remained cocked sideways to listen in. From here, you could make out the voices, Neil and some other man -- one you couldn’t place.

“Nah, Alexandria, that’s where all the guns are -- they took ‘em, so I say we go, push in, just -- just take our shit back.”

“The fuck Shaun,” Neil’s voice was a fraction louder, though it clipped with the weight of a whisper. “Are you fuckin’ insane?”

“No, I’m fucking pissed.”

Everyone in the space froze, as his voice had piqued their ears. You ducked down, crouched by the planter you’d picked over. There was a long moment of silence that followed, though you couldn’t see the men.

Neil hissed as if to shush this _Shaun_ person. You stuck out from the rest of the workers in the garden, in that you were close by the tool shed. You remained curled down towards the dirt, hands full of weeds and clumps of dirt.

“Negan ain’t doin’ shit for us Neil. Those assholes took out my brother, your fuckin’ _friend_ \-- someone’s gotta step up and do something about it. I’m not gonna play nice. Fuck that.”

“We’ll get ‘em back, those fuckers are dead.”

“You, men, the Benson guys -- I think we could make shit happen f’us.”

There’s a drop in volume, and you felt your hands shake. You couldn’t make out the details, but from how Shaun spoke, he seemed to have made a decision. Neil was a shitty guy, you knew that much. He leered and groped and fucked around with girls for fun, but he’d never spoken against Negan.

But then again, it sounded like this was a point of contention.

The shuffle of feet around the shed broke your nerves, enough that you gawked at the source of the sound.

You had to earn that dinner with Negan.

You had to earn that shirt.

You got it now.

They had never been gifts. They’d been an obligation, a gift given to ensure that you felt entitled to Negan. You watched as Shaun and Neil rounded the corner, sneers in place.

“Hey Stripes -- you need somethin’?”

You shook your head.

Shaun narrowed his eyes at you, and you recognized him. The man from by the curtain the night before, the one who’d spoken with Negan. And he had that same flicker of recognition.

“Were you _listenin_ ’ in?”

Fuck.

You were off in a flat out sprint towards the front of the garden, out the doors, down the concrete path. You could hear the shouts behind you, the bellows of desperation. You hadn’t been subtle, and you hadn’t played your hand well. Of all the times for people to notice you...

And then there’s a gunshot.

The puff of concrete shattered by your feet is enough to force tears down and out of your eyes. People who eavesdropped in the Sanctuary were not looked upon with fondness. Information was a crucial commodity within the Sanctuary. You had happened upon a huge piece of information.

All because passion won out. You weren’t even out to tell Negan. You shouldn’t have run. But you had to run. Shaun had pieced your alignment to Negan together, you had seen it in his eyes.

You felt the ground shake as they aimed for your feet. Stupid of them, but maybe it was to slow you down. They could do any number of things to you if you were alive. If you were dead, there’d be questions.

Your lungs were raw by the time you hit the main building. You skidded around a corner, down a corridor, through the makeshift library. You didn’t know where to go. You needed to see Negan. That was the first thought in your mind. Negan, or Charlie.

Negan would be easier.

God, you hoped so.

It was then you glanced down, to see the blood.

Oh.

Whether it was a bullet graze or a piece of concrete, your jeans had torn across the calf. There was a plume of red, down your leg, across your shoes, angry, thick red all across your left leg. You felt your breath rattle in your chest as you noticed the trail.

Fuck.

You pushed yourself into motion, teeth grit against the pain. The adrenaline had been kind enough to stop the pain at first, but now that you’d stopped it was evident. You needed to stop, you needed somewhere safe.

And then you hear the laughter that caused your stomach to curl up on itself. But rather than repulse you as always, it’s a beacon. You pushed yourself that last stretch, around a corner, up some stairs. You could hear the distant coax of _Stripes_ in pursuit. So Neil and Shaun had caught onto your blood trail.

Negan is with Joey, a hand at his shoulder as they talk about who the fuck cares. You rushed towards Negan, glad that you kept on your feet despite the slip of your bloody boot.

“What the fuck -- “

And then Neil and Shaun burst in, and it’s a fucking _mess_.

“There she is!” Shaun exhaled, his gun aloft. “She was tryin’ to escape.”

“Fuck you,” you spat, only to find yourself, pushed behind Joey. You recognized after the fact it had been Negan’s shove, his posture open and proud as ever. Around the edges of the room were others; you didn’t know what this room was, but it was full of people.

All armed. _Good_.

“Is that a matter of fact?” Negan scoffed, to send you a dirty look. “You tryin’ to skip out there, sweetheart?”

“No sir,” you shook your head with ferocity, cheeks as red as the blood on your leg.

“That’s real weird, ‘cause -- I mean, if she was tryin’ to escape, she doesn’t have a bag. And she’s gone and run _into_ the Sanctuary?” Negan gestured inwards and to himself. He snorted with amusement, Lucille in one hand.

“She tossed her bag.” That was Neil, desperate to build upon his friend’s lie.

“Boys, this is just fuckin’ embarrassing for you right now.” Negan sighed. “Put the gun away.”

Shaun kept his gun out, a slow realization on his face.

“Wasn’t a request.”

Shaun remained still, but then the series of clicks around the room that signaled a threat. He holstered his weapon, only to have several men start forward. You watched the struggle with distant concern, still behind Joey.

“As for you,” Negan ignored the movements, his attention fixed on you. He took in your figure, your face, and you got the sense that he could _see_ the information on the tip of your tongue. “You wanna explain why you were runnin’?”

“I wanna fuck you.”

Negan looked like you’d slapped him. He reeled back, a look of disbelief shared with Joey. There was a chuckle from Joey, who stepped aside. He seemed more interested in the scuffle than in you. “I tell yah, save a girl and she’s all yours.”

Your breathing was still irregular and painful, and your leg was a mess.

“Take their weapons, lock ‘em up -- I’ll deal with that shit later.” Negan tongued his lips apart. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, huh? Can’t fuck a girl with shit on her hands, now can I.”

There was a firm hand on your upper arm, and though you had escaped from Neil and Shaun, you got the sense that this may be worse.


	4. fake it.

It was a miracle that you'd found Negan in this place. Even more so with the injury on your leg. You hadn't been able to address it while you ran, but now you could feel the ache of it. You could feel that something had cut through your jeans and your flesh. Your foolish assumption had been the concrete, anything other than the bullet.

Except you still hadn't had a chance to address it.

Negan has you by your armpit, broad hand near enough to encompass your shoulder fully. He led you out the back of the room, down a corridor and into a disused... You couldn't place it. There was machinery of all kinds, nothing you could pick out. But there were crates and boxes all lined up, with an assortment of furniture and supplies.

Maybe it was where they kept stock.

"Hop up."

You looked to Negan with bleary confusion, your mouth slack as he stared down at you.

"Oh my sweet fuckin' Lord -- get on up, buttercup." He yanked you up onto a workbench that was so dust covered, you felt your eyes itch. You couldn't scrub your eyes or check your leg. You still had rotten manure on your hands from the garden. Through the haze of the shadowed room and dusty air, you could see him in front of you.

Still so close to you.

Oh shit.

"I didn't mean it. I don't."

"Hold the fuck on, you didn't mean -- what?" Negan squinted, teeth bared with annoyance.

"I don't wanna fuck you."

Negan stared down at you as the tension mounted. You had spouted the phrase, but you didn't want this. He'd said it was just a phrase, hadn't he?

His hands were on you, on your sides, your leg, his shoulders cut like shadows above you. The silence broke like a thunderstorm, loud and aggressive. But it came in the form of a laugh, his handsome face split into a massive smile.

"Fuck, you think I'd wanna fuck you when you're covered in shit and blood? Fuck that, doll."

"Okay," you exhaled out of relief, only to feel his hands take to your leg.

The left one, the one covered in blood.

"Oh shit, look at you sweetheart," he cooed, bottom lip jut out at an awful angle. "I'm gonna guess those fuckers had some shit they didn't want you to tell me. Right?"

"Mh," you adjusted yourself, hands held away from you. You couldn't do much, not for the pain nor the dirt on you. "I um... Can you get me somethin' to clean myself up with?"

"First, just -- " Negan lofted your leg up like you were a doll, to set it up onto the bench. "You got your dumb ass self nicked by a bullet. That'd be my expert opinion anyway."

You winced at his tone, idle disappointment voiced in how unaffected he was. Then again, Negan wasn't known for his sympathy.

"Look at you, not even a fucking day into spy shit and you fuck it all up." He looked at you with deep disappointment. "Having my doubts here."

It was true, that you'd fucked up. You hadn't hidden well, you'd crept up to Neil and Shaun, you'd acted as suspicious as possible... But you'd fucking tried. And with the fucking bullet wound, you figured it could be forgiven until you were fixed up.

"Yeah, well, I got shit from them, so that's the main thing right?"

"No." Negan exhaled through his nose, to set a hand onto your calf. There's pressure applied, enough to cause pain and you aren't fast enough to cover your wince. "I want you to get shit, yeah. But I also fucking want you to keep your fucking nose clean -- you die? Fuck it. No loss for me. But if they'd caught you, and you knew shit about me, and they knew that? Hello, do you want me to explain how the fucking world works? 'Cause the goddamn second people cotton on that you know anything, they're gonna try to rip it outta you."

The pressure only worsened, but you kept your attention up on his face. You couldn't see the man from dinner last night, or even the man you swore yourself as. You are Negan, as you'd said. Instead, you saw the sliver of calculated aggression he used to keep this place.

"I wanna make this real fucking clear for you, Greer." The pressure on your leg enough to force tears from the corners of your eyes. "You get caught out, you're dead. Straight up. I am not gonna save you -- shouldn't have fuckin' saved you right now either, but here we fucking are."

You tore your gaze away and his grip slackened. It was then you saw the rags he'd bundled into his palms, and the grip around your leg.

"The bleeding'll stop, s'just pressure."

You nodded, tears still in motion down your face.

"Fucking hell, don't -- don't do that shit."

"Fuck you."

"Right back atcha girl." Negan scoffed, another tightened few seconds against your calf. You'd bruise from the bullet but he was only going to make it worse. "So what'd you get?"

You laid back on the table, hands still splayed outwards to keep them from your body. The ceiling above was stained with smoke and ash, with dirty grates and broken lights. It would have looked like this before, it wasn't the outbreak that had ruined this place. The world had always been this way, just in secret.

"Hey, don't pass out -- up."

"They wanna take out Alexandria. Maybe you, too. Some guys called the Bensons... Shaun, Neil. They sounded pissed."

There's silence now, which you welcomed fully. You propped yourself up, though, elbows on the bench as Negan focused down on your leg. The rags he'd taken to your leg were soaked red, and you wondered how bad it really was. It didn't hurt, but you suspected that was the adrenaline in motion. It was still early morning, you could tell that much from the cant of the sun through the windows.

As the silence wore on, it struck you as strange. Negan had heard you, at least you thought he had. He'd been listening, and your leg wound wasn't enough to distract him that much, was it?

"Hey, uh, you okay?"

"You askin' me that right now?" Negan's silence cracked at the edges, a grin back in a place where there'd been worry lines.

"Yeah, I am."

Negan snuffed through his nose, followed by a quizzical shake of his head at you. "I'll sort that shit out. S'not a problem. Heard plenty of shit about Neil, and Shaun's always been a fuckface." The tone is idle as if this was as obvious as the weather.

"Isn't it bad, havin' people want to kick you out of power?" You spoke without thought, to which you could only frown.

"It's bad, yeah, but fuckers always want my shit. Ain't a damn thing about it that surprises me. Alexandria is just about every fucking Saviors' target right now." He turned to look at you, his hands covered in your blood as much as yours were covered in rot and dirt. "We're gonna give 'em a chance, 'cause people are better as workers than corpses. Got corpses aplenty."

"They killed twenty people, so people're after revenge." You spoke with careful words, to be clear on the conversation.

"That's the lay of it, yeah," he wiped at your leg with the rags, around the wound. "Well, you aren't bleedin' out anymore, so that's a win for you. Which leads me to the most important thing here..."

"My hands being covered in shit?"

"What -- no. Kinda, but no, fuck." Negan grinned. "You're gonna have a bum leg for a bit, and you got attacked by some of my men. That shit is really not cool, as you well fucking know. So we gotta talk compensation."

"Oh." Right. You figured there'd be a payment for the information if Negan had taken it on. Either he'd downplayed his anger for your sake, or he was aware of the foul play. "Like, points?"

"Yeah like points," Negan handed you another bundle of rags, coupled with a bottle of water. Everything he touched was printed with your blood, but he didn't seem to care. "You can't work a garden with that leg, so you gotta be paid for your lost time. You're gonna need medicine, right? So that's on me, 'cause those fucks..." He sneered. "Can't fuckin' believe they took potshots inside the fuckin' Sanctuary. Fucking fuckers."

"Did it pass through? The bullet?"

Negan nodded, though he seemed angry all the same.

"Okay, so, points to cover food and medicine -- that right?"

"Maybe a little extra on top, for the trauma." Negan winked, back into his natural swing.

"I am pretty traumatized," you smiled as you cleaned off your hands, thankful for the adrenaline. It numbed you to the pain, though that had faded after Negan had begun to strangle your leg. There was a swaddle of fabric around your calf now, but you wouldn't go near it. Not with your hands, not right now. They were cleaner, though, the dirt still embedded into your nails.

"So, people're gonna think we fucked, by the by."

"What?"

Negan looked at you, exasperation in his expression. "You were s'posed to go up to one guy and say you wanna fuck me. Instead, you bolted in, called it out to the high fucking heavens. So people're gonna think we've fucked. And that we are still fucking. Yeah?"

You blinked several times, torn between the throb in your leg and the pain in your chest. You'd run so fast, you were in so much pain, yet Negan still found a way to make it about sex. "Okay?"

"No, it is not oh-fucking-kay. I'm not saying brag about getting dicked by me, but you keep the fuck away from my wives. Also, you don't fuck anyone else. If you're my girl, you're my girl, so I cannot have you fucking around. Even if it's some make believe bullshit lie -- you following now?"

"I'm not fucking anyone!"

"You're fucking me."

"I'm fucking not!" You threw the towel down onto the ground, though the water was less graceful.

"Calm your shit, holy fuck," Negan broke into laughter. "Am I that unfuckable -- you don't hear me fucking saying shit about you. Can you at least take into account I've got, y'know, feelings, all that shit? Damn."

You pushed off the table to walk, but the wrap around your calf and the difference in muscle efficiency left you weak. You caught yourself before you fell, expression soured. "I'm not..."

"Greer, sweetheart, think about it. You wanna explain that you came back here to rat out some guys? You wanna go around with people knowing you're a fucking snitch?"

You swallowed hard, eyes wide up at him.

"No, you don't. So lucky you, you get to say you're fucking me. My first mistress," he said with a level of excitement. "Even if you're being real fucking rude about it."

"I don't just fuck guys to fuck them, okay?"

Negan squinted at you as if the concept was foreign. You didn't know how much of that was an act and how much was serious, but you did know that you wanted to be back in your cot.

"I won't talk about it, and I won't give details. I'll let people assume what they assume, and keep to myself," you explained away, chin dropped.

"Good, that'll work." Negan lifted your chin with his hand, which he'd wiped on the rags he'd used on your leg. It smelled of copper, iron, something metallic that made you ill. "I'm gonna make it believable -- only thing you'll need. Yeah?"

"Okay," you looked up at him, thankful that he'd caught on. "Um, I mean, yeah?"

Except he'd meant it in a literal sense. There's a stark difference in your height, as he's over six feet and you don't even come close. He lifted your chin with the same ease as he'd lifted your leg, the scruff of beard drawn along your throat. An idle wetness of lips and tongue found your throat and you blinked the starbursts out of your eyes. It'd been years since you'd felt anything close to this.

And then his tongue became teeth and you sunk your nails into his neck in kind. You tried to pry him off, but the water and the blood all mixed for a weird combination. It isn't unpleasant but it's unexpected, the sound of wet skin and his mouth by your ear. You were already loopy from the loss of blood, and to have a -- a fucking hickey? Right now?

"Stop it," you hissed, the surprise wore off.

"You said yeah," he breathed against your ear, the smile in his voice clear through his tone.

"I didn't know what you meant."

"Well shit, I am sorry," Negan straightened up, his hand against your neck as he thumbed the spot he'd bitten at. "Figured you could use it as, uh... _Proof_."

"I'm covered in blood," you frowned up at him.

"So?"

"Oh my God, just -- is there a doctor or something?"

Negan palmed through your hair to muss it up as best he could. "Bite at your lips -- don't make me do it for you."

You obliged, only to realize that he wanted you to look fucked. You shot him an accusatory look, to which he winked. You dragged your lips over your teeth a few times, attention averted anywhere but at him. He was in motion, jumping up and down, and you got the strangest feeling he'd faked a fuck before.

"You do this often?"

"You really wanna know?" Negan's feet hit the ground, and he sounded all the more harried for his brief jumps. "Most the time, girls're happy to fuck if they're gonna spy. They do it for extra points, y'know, gossipin', and shit. Sometimes you get a girl who's saving herself for marriage or some shit, but there's an image I gotta maintain. Guys all think I get my dick wet hourly, which is almost true."

It wasn't much of a surprise. Negan had strong-armed you into service as a spy, sure, but he had the charisma about him. He operated on the level of rock star, with people all eager to either fuck him or be him. You'd kept out and away from his vision for as long as you could, and now you bore his mark. "So you ask people?"

"Hell yeah -- and I don't fuck people unless they ask real nice."

"You bite them, though."

"You said 'yeah', don't you fucking play that shit right now." Negan ran his hand through his hair a few times. "Also you kinda let me do it for a good fucking minute there, so you may wanna check yourself before you go and put shit onto me."

You moved alongside Negan who had draped his arm around you.

"Didn't I get you a better shirt?"

"The red one?"

"Yeah, you should wear it," he said with idle attention, a broad smile on his face. He looked redder in the face and his lips looked fuller.

"I'm gonna have to, this shirt is ruined."

"Good, it's fucking ugly."

"There you fucking are." A voice rang down the hall at you, a thick Irish lilt to its edges.

Oh, _Charlie_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure Negan isn't ON ON ON 100% of the time, and so I hope this read okay even if he seemed softer/more obliging. When he's one on one, I figure it depends on the person. He works as an opposite, out for a reaction; if someone is already on his side and subservient, I don't think he's too aggressive. Anyway! <3


	5. stitches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to strike a balance of not too much Negan but also having him sort of around -- that's how the Sanctuary is. But I figure I'll focus on him and the Reader character, so it will read as a touch focused and biased on them. Also, woo, grander plot. Who would have thought. :U

“You talking to me here?” Negan shot a look between you and Charlie, who remained by the heavy metal door.

“No, no sir,” Charlie dismissed, teeth bared behind parted lips. He seemed out of breath, harried in his own right. “Heard Greer got shot, went to the doctor, but she wasn’t there so -- “

You felt the arm tighten around your shoulders, which only made you sneer.

“So?”

“Just wanted to make sure she was okay.” Charlie hands gripped at his sides and his head dropped down.

Negan huffed out a laugh, teeth bared across to Charlie.

“I really would like t’go to the doctor,” you piped up, a hand pressed to Negan’s chest. You looked to him, your eyes wider and your expression soft. Negan shifted from momentary confusion and then appreciation, as he warmed up to you.

“I didn’t do a good enough job for you, huh?”

“No, you did fine,” you stared at him, your fingers beat in a slow tattoo against his chest.

“Be good.” There’s a firm press to your forehead, a scruff of beard and a gentle brush of his lips. His hand framed your chin, the same sickening waft of your blood upon his flesh. He pulled back and away, to cast a sidelong wink at Charlie. “Escort her for me -- then come see me. Got a job f’you.”

Charlie stepped aside so that Negan could take to the door he’d been beside. He lingered at the door, his sandy hair in desperate need of a trim. You could hardly see his eyes through the locks as he looked back to you, but the expression was clear.

Only because it must mirror your own.

“Do I wanna ask?”

You wilted, ashen from the blood loss but reddened by his touch. “No.”

Charlie started forward, though he wasn’t angry. You could tell that much, as he was one of the few Saviors who’d kept in touch with her after she’d arrived. Most of the people she had first met treated her like an acquisition, to be placed into its place and then ignored.

“How long’ve you been back?”

“Couple of days, hadn’t had a chance t’come see you.”

You felt his hands come to rest by your chin and your shoulder, to tip your posture enough to inspect you. The touch only lasted a few seconds, as your hands snapped out to reinforce your personal space. You couldn’t push Negan away, but you could keep everyone else at arms’ length.

“What the fuck happened?”

“Some guys thought I was trying to escape, tried to shoot me." Your attention turned away. “Can we talk when I’m stitched up?”

You saw Charlie gesture out of the corner of your eye, to which you followed. There was a moment or two where you’d had to latch onto his bicep to steady yourself. Charlie was a dependable guy with a strict sense of morality. He’d helped you fit into the Sanctuary at large.

The doctor’s quarters were nearby, as the Sanctuary wasn’t as large as it first appeared. There was a lot of space dedicated to cars and livestock, as well as gardens and workshops. The livable space was only a few floors, with a warehouse or two dedicated to food.

“Need Carson stat,” Charlie barked upon their arrival to the doctor’s office.

“Oh god, that’s a lot of blood, even with the bandages." The attending nurse narrowed her eyes at the pair, brown hair wound up in an elegant bun. “As a forewarning, that’s gonna be expensive, if it’s stitches and follow-up appointments. First, do you have an appointment?”

“Th’fuck?” Charlie growled, his height emphasized as his shoulders squared up. “Shucks, she went and made it f'next Tuesday, y’see. Thought she'd get shot then, not today.”

You scoffed beneath your breath, eyes rolled up to the ceiling.

“Make time right fucking now, or shit’s gonna go down Ellie.”

“Charlie, we don’t have supplies to hand out for free, if she’s gotten injured she’s going to have to pay. So can she pay? Because if she can’t, then -- ”

“It’s covered by of Negan,” you snarled, sick of the bickering. “Some guards shot me for no fucking reason, can you just get the doctor? Or I’m gonna have to hobble my ass all the way back to Negan, and get him in here to vouch for me.”

Ellie shot yourself and Charlie a fierce look, her nervous fingers in motion over a clipboard. She scurried away, down the hall to the secluded section of the ward. This was the office, more or less, but it was good practice to come here first.

“Did you make an appointment,” Charlie repeated, with all the sarcasm inlaid into it.

“God, I know, I made a mistake huh.”

There was silence as you waited for Ellie to return. You felt Charlie’s attention shift over you several times, from your neck to your face. You refused to meet his eye, not yet sure how you could lie about your position. He’d done so much for you, been so forthcoming, and you had to lie.

No one could know, or you’d be torn apart.

The echo of footsteps approached, two, three, a flurry of sounds. You watched a pair of women with sleek black dresses and immaculate hair pass by. Behind them was the doctor and Ellie.

“Ah, there’s Charlie and -- “ Doctor Carson smiled to you. “You are?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Shot.”

“Right, yes,” he motioned for you to follow, and Charlie followed in turn.

Your leg had stiffened from the swell of blood and rejection of bacteria. As if you hadn’t accrued enough scars from this new world, another one was added to your tally.

“Very generous for Negan to waive the medical costs.” Carson's lips twitched sideways as he examined you. “If that is the case, and you aren’t lying, of course.”

“It is.”

“Well, we’ll see won’t we -- about the wound, that is.”

You stepped into a clean grey room with a chair that looked more at home within a dentist’s office than a doctor’s. He gestured for you to climb up onto the counter rather than the chair. 

“Charlie, are you her brother, or significant other?”

“Yeah, th’second one.” He shot you a look, as if to encourage your agreement.

You got it, that he wanted to stay with you, but you couldn’t. You shook your head, chin dropped to your chest. “He’s not.”

“Right, well ah, I’ll have to ask you to stay outside. Won’t be long.”

Charlie flexed a hand, his palm by his knife. He allowed the gesture to wane as he dipped his head, to slip out the door. He closed it behind him, and you figured you’d see him upon your exit.

From there, it a whole lot of pain. The stitches took time, as Carson checked the wound for any shrapnel. There was none to be found, as the bullet had passed through muscle and minor veins but nothing major. So far as a gunshot wound went, you were lucky. That’s what Carson said, anyway.

Then started the prick, prick, prick, the slow stitch of your flesh back together. You had a few rags for your face, to wipe away at your eyes because it fucking hurt. The painkillers had expired and were not effective, but you kept quiet as best you could. You wanted to scream, but you were too exhausted.

“You’ll need to keep it clean, rest up, not too much exertion.” Carson sat back, bloody gloves discarded into a wastebin. “You’re very lucky. Not many people in this world would be able to say they survived a gunshot.” He smiled to you, proud of his work.

You exhaled a pained sigh as you examined your leg, wrapped in cleaner bandages. You hadn’t seen it stitched up, but you were sure that’d change in time.

Carson ran through the instructions on how to care for it, and gave you several dates. A checkup and a date to remove the stitches if they didn’t dissolve or remove themselves. You winced at the thought, not excited to come back here again.

You set your weight onto your leg with careful pressure. You were glad that it was a superficial wound rather than anything of real damage. It had skimmed the outer side of your left leg, across the meat of your calf.

“You should take my room.”

“Charlie -- “ You stepped out of the room, attention settled up on the man who was too big for his own good. “I can’t.”

“I don’t mean like that, just, till your leg is better.”

“No, I really can’t.”

Charlie nodded, a disappointed look on his face. “If things were bad, you could’ve said somethin’.”

You had been halfway down the hall when you stopped, face turned up to express every shred of shock within you. “I got shot, I feel like that says how bad it was.”

“No, no, I mean, with points.”

“What?”

Charlie scruffed a hand through his hair, tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Fuckin’ around with Negan -- you’d be gettin’ points, right? Just wish you’d said somethin’, instead of goin’ that route. Only ‘cause once y’stop, he’s not... “

“What?”

Charlie winced at the conversation, though he had been the one to start it. He looked around the hallway, both ways, before he looked down to you. “Th’girls always end up on fence duty or worse if they leave him. Sure, he’ll dismiss girls, they’re better off, kitchens or gardens... I didn’t know things were that bad f'you.”

“Fuck off, Charlie. You don’t get it.” You pushed your hair behind your ear, exhausted in a whole new way. “It’s not about points -- just happened, it’s not a big deal.”

“No, I know, fuck whoever you want. I’m just sayin’ if it’s ‘cause you’re short, I got points t’spare, bein’ out on runs. Y’can always talk t’me. Y’don’t have to do that if you don’t want to. S’all, Greer.”

You continued in silence alongside Charlie. He offered out of a kind place, but you recognized the pattern. It all started as a kind offer or genuine affection, and it’d warp. You would become a thing to be taken in and played with, only to be turned out into the world once you got dull. At least with Negan you knew it’d happen; with Charlie, he’s just too nice. It’d hurt more when he moved on.

People don’t keep you, and you wouldn’t keep them either.

“I can’t stay in your room. I’ll just work harder, get my own.”

Charlie smiled, halfheartedly. “I gotta go see th’bossman so you be right t’get your arse back to your cot?”

You looked to the double doors that led to the communal area, only to look back at Charlie with deep woe. “I don’t know, it’s an awful lot of steps.”

“You’ll be okay, I have faith in you.”

You waved him off as you stepped into the sprawl of cots and military green. There were curtains to each row of cots, though most people stayed with family or partners. You had a girl you’d me through your time here, which suited you fine. Sunni worked the laundry shift in the morning and you hadn’t a clue what time it was.

In truth, you wanted the world to fuck off and for everything to be quiet.

There was attention on you. You only noticed it because it was rare. It wasn’t anything overt, but there were glances. Perhaps it was your bloody leg, where your jeans had been torn open, or maybe it was the hobble to your step. You worked your way down the hallway, eager to strip off your jeans.

More than that, you were excited to go shower.

It took longer than usual to shower, but the water was cold and that was welcome in the heat. You had to steal a plastic bag from Sunni, but you’d be able to replace it in no time. The gymnastics of a shower with a bum leg was awful, but you smelled of manure and blood. You couldn’t even tend to your wounds with it.

You tossed your jeans into the laundry, sure that someone could make use of the denim. You instead pulled on your spare jeans and the red shirt, the one you'd received. It felt wrong to have such a fine piece of clothing to your name, but by fucking God had you earned it. You had bled for this damn shirt, so you would wear the fuck out of it.

You managed a few hours in your cot, where you napped while you kept your leg up. Your life had been put on hold because of your mistake, with no garden duty and no further work to turn up for.

The men would think you were a bimbo, out for the big man’s little man, and you would play it up. You could pretend, you could bat your eyelashes and feign ignorance. You’d done a similar thing with Charlie, who had turned his interests to how he could help you.

A solid thunk dragged you out of your slumber, where you saw a shadow by the end of your bed. What had seemed like a few hours had morphed into night. You could see the night sky through the windows high above, and you could see that shadow.

“You skipped dinner.”

Oh, Sunni.

You heart was in your throat, your hand clutched around your collarbone. “Yeah, I don’t know if you heard -- “

“Oh God, I heard, you got shot. Some assholes chased you -- right? Angie and Delilah told me, it’s so fucked up.” She hissed. Her hand defaulted to the small set of candles you had, enough to offer light in the evening air.

“Yeah.” You exhaled, your stomach in angry motion. “Fuck, when does the marketplace close?”

“Like, six -- you way missed it.” She frowned. “I had to stay back late ‘cause of all these sheets that came in bloody. Like, super bloody.” She added with a lower tone.

“From?”

Sunni shrugged, a serious frown on her face. “Dunno, but they were big sheets, so not bed sheets. Like, someone laid them out, y’know?”

“Weird.”

“I know, so gross too.” Sunni took a seat on her bed, to untie her boots. “Not as bad as your day though, huh.”

“It’ll be okay.” You smiled, though it sagged because of your exhaustion. “I get compensation ‘cause it was the guards who screwed up.”

“Ooh, fancy.” She beamed. “Maybe I should get shot -- “

“Don’t.”

“I was kidding,” Sunni laughed, a wriggle through her shoulders. “I’m starting to think th’girls who go and get all wifey for lifey, they have the right idea. Bet they don’t have t’clean fucked up stuff.”

You laughed, but you couldn’t offer any encouragement. As you laid back, you realized you’d need food. It’d been… Fuck, hours since you’d eaten. Not since breakfast… Which had only been a roll. You shifted within your cot, desperate to ignore the way your stomach roiled in anger.

“I’m gonna go see what I can scrounge.”

“C’mon Greer, honey, no…”

“I’ll be fine.”

Sunni watched as you pushed up from your cot, your hair mangled from how it had dried. The mix of your hair and the shadows at least augmented the mark on your throat. You were paranoid, unsure how much people had heard. The benefit was, few people even knew your name so it wasn’t as if people would know.

Even then, Negan fucking a girl wasn’t the talk of the damn town.

(Especially if the _fucking_ was a lie.)

You were thankful the wound on your leg was high up enough that you could wear shoes as you normally would. You stepped out towards the double doors, mindful of your leg and of your status. You needed to keep low and avoid guards; if only to avoid anyone who liked Neil and Shaun more than they liked Negan.

There were flood lights hooked up to a generator, for when the overhead lights failed to provide.

Sunni had mentioned bloody sheets, which sounded important. Whether Negan had used sheets for some fucked up stuff, or someone else... It shouldn’t matter to you, but it did now. You had to justify your worth because the closer you got to Negan, the further you got from anyone else.

You had to lie and you had to deceive, and in the end you only had you to look out for.

Aimee and Tracker had kept to themselves and the news that they’d have a baby on the way.

You weren’t bitter, you were realistic.

The prowl for food took you through the dining hall, which was on the backend of service. There was nothing left aside from fruits and vegetables, and the expensive foods. That consisted of military rations, high in nutrition and with an infinite lifespan. But that shit cost, because if someone stocked up on those, they could make a break for it.

Everything here had a cost.

You wound up with a packet of military rations and an apple, and you sat in silence at the end of the tables. You ate the rations first, as fast as you could, before you started on the apple. Around you were the cleanup crew, who moved in packs as they mopped and swept.

It was late, around nine or so. You had slept away the day and now you had the luxury of a late dinner. You weren’t sure if it was worth it, the knowledge that people would be after you if they knew the truth. Not to mention the brand across the flesh of your throat, curteousy of Negan.

But so far as you knew, you were a victim, you had been attacked. No one knew about your work against Neil and Shaun except the pair, and Negan. You didn’t even know if those men were still alive.

You took your apple and left the mess hall, much to the relief of the staff.

A low ache in your gut told you to do it; to check.

It only took a few minutes to divert your path in the evening air, to skim the fences for familiar faces.

You saw Neil.

And you surprised yourself, as a laugh pumped out from your nose. You laughed, and laughed, and gripped the metal of the fence. You had to step back, for all your sound had drawn their attention. You took a final bite of your apple before you lobbed the core over the fence.

You couldn't see which walker it had hit in the dark. You liked to believe it hit the asshole straight on the top of his ugly fucking head.

 _“You a tiger or somethin’?”_ You mocked in a poor imitation of his voice. “No, but you’re dead because of me all the same, _jackass_.” You spat at the ground between yourself and the fence, a dark relief set in your belly. He’d died because of you, but mostly because of himself. If he’d only done as he was supposed to, he would be alive.

That’s how shit worked here.

The slit across his throat looked precise, matched by a series at other parts. He’d been bled, you thought. The night grew darker and the lights outside began to shift from outward to inward, lower and lower. They disguised themselves in the night, to keep themselves safe.

You strutted back to the communal dorms with as much dignity and speed as you could muster.

Sunni wasn’t there when you got back, but she could have gone to the bathroom. You didn’t keep tabs on one another here. It was safe.

You laid down to sleep, your stomach full and your ego satiated.


	6. mistaken identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I appreciate the support so much, I've been enjoying this story immensely as it is influenced by the show but it is largely written by myself! It's been a fun challenge of foreshadowing and character development, with a lot of OCs. I'm glad the reader character is interesting without being too hard to relate to!
> 
> Also.... Smooches. ;)
> 
> On a more serious note, this is a content warning for the story at large: Implied & passing mention of non-con and potential abuse. It's very minor, but the show is dark. This chapter is more the introduction of the elements, but I will afford them proper attention and care to deal with in future chapters. The story is going to be dark overall, but I wanted to give a heads up at the beginning! In future if these points come up, I will try to inform you all via the notes.

You awoke the next morning to sun on your face and a general bustle around you.

Oh, and the immediate pain in your leg.

Fuck.

Your hand defaulted to your calf, over the sutures and the bandage. You had slept through the night and into the afternoon by the looks of the sun above. Sunni’s cot was neat beside you, and you could only assume she slipped out. You needed the sleep, and the sentiment was appreciated.

But then there was the issue of what you would do with yourself. You had nothing but time within the Sanctuary now. Your leg hurt too much to go for walks to every little nook of it. You didn’t want to agitate it either, not for any reason beyond the bathroom or for food.

Breakfast sounded like a delight. Your dinner had been military rations in the dim light of the night. The cheerful atmosphere at lunch would do you wonders.

You had slept in your jeans and shirt, so it was only your boots that you needed to put back on. That took you longer than you liked, given the awkward angle and the ache through your leg. You had a few painkillers that Carson had palmed off to you, but you took only one with you to breakfast.

You could spread them out and make them last, to ensure that you didn’t have to pay back the cost of more later on. You didn’t know how far Negan’s kindness extended, even though you’d done your job.

The walk was slow, by choice as much by necessity. You kept out of the way, to the side, and no one noticed you. There would be a glance or a look of pity, but they lessened as you found your footing. You could pretend to be okay, it wasn’t hard to act like you okay when you felt terrible.

By the time you got to the mess hall, breakfast time had become lunch. It’d been close to afternoon anyway, and your speed couldn’t be faulted. You were wounded and had few places to go anyway; you’d have to be mindful in future.

The sprawl of tables welcomed you as you entered. There was the smell of meats and vegetables in the air and the sound of people in conversation. A few boys shouted at one another, but they had cards out in front of them.

You peeked at their game, to see poker. They were early teens at best, with liquor and cigarettes sprawled out.

“Mind your own shit,” one scoffed, a grin cast wide over his face.

You looked away, a roll of your eyes as you saw yourself to the counter at the back of the hall. It reminded you of high school, how people would dole out their meals and find a place to sit. You would sit with Sunni or Aimee, but you saw neither. You did spot that girl Angie that Sunni always spoke about. She had her thick blonde hair bunched into high pigtails and a swath of eyeshadow that they made out of berries.

You headed for a single spot amidst people you didn’t know. Your tray packed with the freshest food you'd had in a long while, save for dinner with Negan. That’s when your glance across to Angie prompted a strange response; tears.

You paused at your spot, about to sit as you watched the girl break down with…

God, you didn’t know their names, there’s too many girls who work in the laundry. It was rare you stayed a laundry girl for long, as some of the worst illnesses sprung up with all the blood and waste.

The bloody sheets from yesterday, as Sunni had said.

Your curiosity won out as you stumped your way over to the table, hip cocked out to the side. “Um, hi -- I just wanted to ask, is Sunni still working or what?”

Another sob, though Angie tried to hold it back this time. She received sharp looks from others in the area, outside of her group. The girls all had the temperance of fragility, afraid or upset or something. They were usually the ones with their heads high and their postures wide.

“Sunni’s with Carson,” Angie whispered. “She got -- we don’t know, but, last night, some -- some man just, grabbed her, and -- “

Your tray hit the table as you leaned forward, your gaze in motion across the table, the girls. You were unsure where to look for an answer. “And?”

Angie didn’t speak further, a babble of tragic sounds pulled from her chest. She palmed her eyes, a half-hearted attempt to pull herself together again. “They don’t know, just that they cut her up, but she’s alive, just, it’s…”

“Yeah, I get it,” you nodded, teeth grit. “You tell a guard?”

“A guard, um, Jack or John or -- it was a _jay_ name, he was the one that found her. Chelsea’s brother,” she pointed to a ginger girl whose face looked as red as her hair. “Tied up, they said. Like -- bad. Real bad.”

You pushed up from the counter, an angered growl ripped from your mouth. Someone had gone to your cots and pulled her out. You hadn’t seen her last night, you’d thought she went to the bathroom. You’d let it slip, you’d just gone to sleep, so wrapped up in your own bullshit.

“Here, have this,” you said, a shove of your tray to the girls. It was laden with food afforded to you by the bullet in your calf, so it wasn’t even yours to begin with. They accepted it without question. Each was eager to get fresher food than the stale bread they’d taken to.

“Are you okay?” Angie asked, a glance over your figure. “I heard you got shot.”

“Some asshole thought I was makin’ a break for it,” you explained, a look back to her.

Her eyes flicked between your leg and neck, then to the food. She didn’t say anything further, only dipped her head as a thank you as she took a bite of an apple.

You had a roll in your fist, but you’d taken that for Sunni.

The walk to the doctor’s office hurt, oh fuck it hurt, but you got there at top speed. You ducked down the hallway, head dipped down as you avoided everyone.

The questions were there in your head, awful questions. Had they been after you? Your hair looked like Sunni’s and you shared a space. They’d snatched her up, but maybe you’d been the target. It made more sense. Sunni was a girl, she did her job and she was sweet. Everyone knew her as the generous one, always out with a few spare points or there to cover a shift.

You only stopped as you hit the corner of the hallway that started the doctor’s ward. There were several offices, with a receptionist in one and a few rooms for patients in the others. There was a _main_ room, the one you’d gotten your stitches in yesterday.

Except today you saw Negan, in talks with Carson and Ellie. There’s Simon too, thick handlebar mustache enough to distract from his piercing eyes. He noticed you, only for a sly smirk to appear on his face. While the other three chatted, he stepped towards you.

“Hey, doctor’s busy.”

“No, I have t’see Sunni.”

“She’s out, kid. Like, sleepy time central up in this bitch.” He looked you over, an eyebrow raised at the roll in hand. “You gonna eat that?”

You wilted, the crumpled roll packed into your fist. "Totally." You took a large bite out of it and eyed Simon. He maintained the eye contact, though he broke into giggles after a few seconds.

“Negan said you were fun.”

Fuck.

You choked on the roll, your hand pressed to your mouth. “I’m here about Sunni, I don’t give a fuck about him.”

“Woah, woah,” Simon hissed as he shot a look over his shoulder to Negan. The conversation continued, though Negan’s attention had slipped your way. “Just ‘cause he’s dicking you doesn’t mean you can be a bitch about him. That’s not cool.”

“Okay, well, can you tell me what happened?”

Simon scratched at his temple, disinterested in the conversation ahead of him. “Girl got picked up from her cot, slapped around a bit, it’s fucked up. And not how we do shit, by the way.” He focused on the sizeable hickey that’d Negan sucked onto your throat. Rather than, y'know, the fucking _gunshot wound_ in your leg.

It felt like Negan’s mouth equated to greater risk than a gunshot. That’s the message you got from all this.

“Do you know why?”

Simon shot you another look, as if you’d asked if piss fell from the sky. “Dunno, perverts are fuckers, do I look like a cop? I’m just here to keep the riffraff away from Negan while he’s working. Might wanna...” Simon flicked his fingers at you, accompanied by a hiss through his teeth.

“She can stay.”

You and Simon snapped your attention to Negan, who’s voice carried across the hall.

“C’mon honey, need your help with something.”

You shot Simon a look of superiority until you realized what it was that had been asked of you. You stepped around Simon who looked baffled. You found yourself enclosed under Negan’s arm, baffled in your own way. There was a strange sense of comfort to his touch. It's more for the fact that while you were here, he couldn’t have someone off you.

“Gonna need a room,” he said, only to watch Carson flick around with keys. The three of you walked along the hall, until you got to the last room. There was a long bed rather than a medical table. The furniture was akin to a hospital room rather than a general doctor’s office.

Simon fell into step, the door clicked behind you as Negan led you in.

“S’for longer recovery patients, wives if they’re sick, y’know, just...” he heaved a long sigh, his brow creased. He took to the bed, elbows set on his knees and his head bowed low. You watched in silence as he sat. Your discomfort with the room amplified as he began to settle in. It was as if he'd spent so much time within hospitals, and maybe he had.

You looked to the wall behind you, the one that was between yourself and Sunni.

The quiet went on longer than you expected, with only a few voices outside heard. There was his breathing, too, but he seemed to be in his own world. His hand kept in nervous motion against his lips, around the stubble of his beard.

“You know that girl?”

“Yeah,” you looked to Negan, mouth dropped open a fraction. “Our cots are next to each other.”

“What a coincidence.” He huffed out a laugh, Lucille now tapped on repeat against the concrete floor. “Gonna be honest with you here, shit didn’t go to plan yesterday.”

“I know, I fucked up,” you began, nerves in your voice.

“Yeah you fucking did,” Negan started, now up on his feet. “But the thing is, we got Neil. We bled him out like a pig, all done, he’s out on the fence at work. You saw that though, right?”

You gave a nervous nod. “How’d you know?”

Negan grinned, as if you’d asked a stupid question. And maybe you had. “I know where everyone is in this place at all fucking times, sweetheart. S’what I do. So, you catch on with what I said? That we got Neil… There were two guys, right?”

You gave a slow nod, your eyes opened wider as you did so. “Shaun?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

Negan grinned, anger etched into his smile. “Yep! Just, poof, fucking gone. So this is the problem -- some fuckers in here are not playing ball. I know where every fucker likes to piss, I know where people go to fuck, but I don’t know where the fuck Shaun went.” There’s a bunch of men who’re out to get at me, and now three of the four are just… Around. The brothers’re out on a run, that’s fine, but Shaun? Fuck.”

“You think Shaun was after me, but he grabbed Sunni…”

“That’d be the popular opinion,” Negan began to pace, Lucille in nervous motion as he walked. He swung her in gentle arcs all around, his fingers tapped at the hilt. “She’s around the same size, same hair color, same cot -- fucker grabbed her in the dark, didn’t find the bullet wound but they already fucked up.” He snarled, a smack of his bat against the end of the bed.

“He left her alive, though.”

“Gonna have t’get you a _room_.” Negan palmed his forehead, eyes shut tight.

“What?”

“Your own room, off on the side. Around Simon, Joey, people who’re trusted.” He sighed, to cast a look over you. He seemed to be ten steps ahead of you in what he knew and what he wanted. You were stuck on the fact one of your only friends had been _assaulted_ because of you.

The facts all hit too late, how she’d been picked up and taken off to God knows where… What if it’d been you?

Negan had told you that your position would have people after you. You’d not even made it a day without all this shit on your plate.

“I need you to lay low, be good, we catch this fucker and then you’re off on your own.”

You looked to Negan, heart too fast in your chest.

“For someone who’s s’posed to go by unnoticed, you’ve fucked a whole lot of stuff up in a few short days. So you get your room, we get Shaun, then you’re back the fuck out on your ass once your leg is healed up.”

“I didn’t lose Shaun, I didn’t kidnap Sunni. None of this is my fault!”

The raise to your voice surprised even you, as Negan looked at you with a confused furrow to his brow. He rocked on the balls of his feet, only to approach with a cautious pace. He shifted from side to side, as if to find the best angle to approach you.

“Figured you’d be excited to get outta this shit. Threats, people out to kill you over the shit you told me -- fuck Greer, you think you can be useful?”

“Shaun’s gonna get caught. Once he’s gone, it’s like nothing happened.” You swallowed hard, to fight back any shift in your tone.

“How d’you figure that?” Negan was in front of you now, head tipped back as he regarded you. He’s tall, you know that, but to see it up close is its own brand of intimidation.

“People don’t know I had anything to do with it, right? I’m just a girl who got shot. It’s only him who knows I told you anything.”

The flat of his palm came into contact with your jaw, thumb brushed across the apple of your cheek. “I think you just wanna stick close to me. What’s this, day three of you after my dick?”

“I wanna help keep this place safe.” You exhaled, exhausted by his arrogance. “For everyone.”

There’s a shift in Negan’s eyes, maybe the first genuine emotion you’d ever seen in him. It’s akin to pride, in you or in this place, you couldn’t say. His lips kicked at the corners into a smirk, brows furrowed down at you. “That’s corny as fuck.”

“Yeah, well, I mean it. I’m gonna find Shaun, and I’m gonna fucking _kill_ Shaun.”

“Ooh, I love it when you talk dirty.”

You had to laugh at the comment, where before it had felt against your will. You never laughed much, with little to find amusement in. It might’ve been the gentle touch at your jawline or the proximity, but you enjoyed it all the same. You’d been this close to him before, only just, but he’d been after your throat not your lips.

Your attention skipped down his features. It lingered on his lips before you snapped your gaze back to his eyes. Don't be dumb, you told yourself.

“They’re gonna think we fucked again, huh.”

“Fuck yeah.” Negan’s eyebrow jumped with amusement. “Gotta get that pussy on the hourly, I told you.”

“Pft, okay, how about -- “ You realized how close he’d gotten but he didn’t break the distance. You noticed that about Negan, how he’d linger and insist himself into your space. He'd keep at you until you cracked or told him off. The mingle of breath is enough to remind you how long it’d been since you’d been close to someone, and he’d been kind enough --

No. Fuck. No, he wasn’t kind. He asked you to spy, and you got shot. He gave you this shirt as an object you had to pay back, and he gave you a room because he was worried about himself.

It’s all this logic and so little brain power. Your gaze shifted again, to his lips, his eyes. The invitation became etched into you with how close he’d shifted to you. You rocked forward to peck him, a downright chuckle as you rolled back.

“There, we fucked -- “

But Lucille fell sideways against the chair you’d hovered around and then there’s heat.

The hands at your jaw spread, once across your cheek while the other grasped your throat. It’s gentle, only there in the faintest touch, but his lips are a whole other story. You hadn’t _wanted_ to kiss him, but that went out the window as he pulled you in.

Too late did you realize that Negan liked to win; that’s what this was. He’d won, he’d gotten you to kiss him, that was his great, big victory. But your kiss had been a peck, akin to an obliged kiss under mistletoe. The kiss that followed slammed you in the chest. His tongue brushed against your lips until you broke, your lips parted, then it was all teeth.

Teeth at your lips, at your jawline, your neck, a mix of pressure points that he'd no doubt exploited on others. That was the shitty part about Negan, he got how people worked. He got it even more when it came down to the visceral. He ran his fingers from your throat to your lower back, fingertips dragged down your spine.

“Moan,” he instructed.

You made a sound of confusion, which was enough for him as the kiss resumed. This was an act, same as yesterday but _more_.

Dominance.

Fucker.

It was the hickey all over again, except Simon was outside and Negan was a showman at heart. You made sounds at his prompts, which came in the form of short growls or grunts. Each sound was more than you’d make by choice, but this wasn’t about you.

The kiss finished once Negan was satisfied that he’d ‘ _lasted’_ long enough, you assumed. As if duration was some great bragging point. There was a final, sweeter kiss popped onto the tip of your nose like a signature.

“Good job,” his forehead pressed against yours as he spoke. The moment lingered, a mimicry of intimacy as you stood in the room people came to die in. His hands had found their way to your waist, thumbs brushed at the edges of your shirt. “Simon’ll take you to a room, you trust no fucker. Not a single fucking person.”

You exhaled a shaky breath, to nod at Negan.

“Good girl -- I’ll come by later, see how you settled in.” He said, only to lean in closer to growl a further comment. “Probably have more information, too.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Negan drew back to smirk, his eyebrow still raised. “You could look a bit more fucked if I tried but -- “

“No, thanks.”

“Okay,” he removed his hands, to show them off as if to prove they were empty. He snatched up Lucille and you stepped towards the door. You almost lost your footing as you’d forgotten about your bum leg, but you caught yourself. Negan made no move to help you, only watched with minor amusement.

Simon had remained outside the door, the smarmiest look on his face you had ever seen. The walk to your room was in silence, but you knew the path. Aimee and Tracker stayed in this hallway, and Charlie was a few flights down.

That was the plan you hatched as Simon swung you into your personal room, the full sprawl of appliances and a big bed. You examined the lights, the books, the TV, an absolute cavalcade of goods at your disposal. You flopped onto your bed, only after you’d locked the door.

You hadn’t even gotten to see Sunni, as her door had been closed.

But you would.

  
You’d kill Shawn and then go find her to tell her all about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hemmed and hawed over this plot, but I hope I executed it with respect and taste. This is the beginning of the story, and I assure you that this isn't a throwaway moment. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter all the same! And Sunni will get the proper time and attention, as stated above.


	7. second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for introspection and too much Negan? No? Well here we go!
> 
> (Allusions to sexual assault and torture in this chapter, only passingly.)

 

It seemed brash to resort to murder, but it was your first and most prominent instinct. The Sanctuary would turn itself over to catch Shaun, but he knew the place. He wouldn’t be inside the lot anymore, with freedom outside the walls and the threat to his life within

If he was here, you’d find him. If not, you’d have to go after him, for Sunni’s sake; for your own.

You had never stayed in one place for too long anyway, it would be easy to slip out… Right? Except that your leg was too wounded for you to climb, and you couldn’t run. The guards would be skeptical of you, as you’d been called out for an attempted escape only days ago. Negan had eyes on you, you realized, even as you watched a man stare you down.

The plan unraveled before you, each thread tugged by facts and insecurity alike. You couldn’t fight like this, not with the bullet wound, not enough to survive on your own.

Worse than that, you hadn’t seen Aimee or Tracker in days, not since the dinner. There had been the mention of a child, of work. They distanced themselves from you, as people often did. It was how things worked, people grew, changed, their focus shifted.

You understood it, you left them as much as they left you.

You were in your room, the newly provided one that had more decorations than you had in the old world. You had appliances and lights, a sink, a fridge… It was a bonafide palace compared to your cot beside Sunni. Your stomach lurched at the thought, of how the attack on Sunni had turned into a room for you. She deserved the room more than you, anyone did.

But then there was the concern of what the plan was when Shaun grabbed you. You hadn’t seen Sunni, not in person. The world was dark, enough that you could fill in the blanks between each pause. You had been too afraid to ask.

The plot for how you’d kill Shaun resurfaced as you picked through your mismatched plates. It changed from murder to torture, as you were unsure if you’d make him suffer or make it fast. If not for Sunni, for yourself, for all the shit that he had put onto you for his overreaction.

It was irrational, your loathing, but it didn’t make it any easier to ignore. You had endured a luckier life before, one where people obeyed the law.

You had never felt the urge to kill someone before the world turned to rot.

Worse than the intent to even the score, was the cause of this urge. It came from outside of you, wrapped around your lips and offered like poison to your insides. You had been offered an out, where you could return to the garden and continue the lie.

Hell, you were a shitty spy. Negan realized it, you realized it, but you had wanted to prove something to him, to yourself.

And that was the real problem here.

The plates were left out on the counter, shifted out of nervous habit. You paced your room for a long moment, the blood in your leg enough to remind you that you couldn’t be on your damn leg. You needed to relax, you needed to heal, or Shaun would get away.

As you succumbed to the pain in your leg to recline, it hit you. Not the pain, no, the realization of what had happened, the real problem.

You had played right into Negan’s hand, in how you begged him to let you stay.

The threat of anonymity had hit you harder than it should have. You would be free of this pressure, and you could admit that you hadn’t fucked around with Negan. You had, as you had a hickey marked onto you, but it was as genuine as a kiss in a play. No one would pretend a kiss between actors was real, so you didn’t consider it real, either.

It wouldn’t have been that bad to go back to the garden, to work and work and…

And then what?

You were unsure what you wanted in this new order, as much as you had been lost before.

In the world before the walkers, there was a funnel. It came in the form of society, shaped to ease you down into long hours and too many children, and that was that. The path was archaic but familiar, even before the world fell apart. Nothing had changed, not even as people cannibalized each other, not even as the dead roamed.

But fuck that.

You didn’t need to rely on anyone, and you didn’t want to flop on your back and see who climbed on top of you. You could handle a gun with some proficiency, and you worked well with stealth. You could fight if you had to, but you relied more on your cunning than your brute strength. It had served you well before, and you needed to bring those skills back to the surface.

More than anything, you wanted your leg to feel better.

That was step one, in a literal and figurative sense. Step two was to find a gun, and step three was to shoot Shaun.

A bullet, or maybe two, and that was the job done.

“Knock fuckin’ _knock_.”

“No.”

“Ouch.”

You sat up, your door wide open despite the lock. Negan stood with a grin, shoulder pressed to the door and his hand cocked for effect. A ring of keys strung along a piece of wire was all it had taken to get to her. Even in this private sanctuary that you had earned, you weren’t really safe. You would never be safe.

“I even gave you warning.”

You watched as Negan reminded you who really owned your room. He strutted in, the door slammed behind him as he shucked off his jacket. It landed alongside Lucille, who made a happy couple on an old ugly chair in the corner. He paced, the same steps you had taken before, his hands ran over and over across his face.

“So?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Negan dismissed you, a grin in place when you expected a scowl.

You watched in silence as he remained quiet in turn, and it was the longest moment of your life. He considered the room, the windows, the bed, you, all in slow, measured bursts. He seemed fixated on something, like he was after a bug. And then it clicked, that he was -- just not the sort of bug you’d expect to find in rural Virginia.

“Shaun’s gone.”

“Figured.”

Negan smiled at you, the expression kicked a few notches higher before he reset it, a stern look sent your way. “You did, huh?”

“No shit, he wouldn’t stick around in a place full of people who’re out to fucking kill him.”

“Oof, could you lighten the fucking _tone_ sweetheart, I do not need you on my fucking case too.”

You rescinded, your hands raised in a vague apologetic gesture. You had your legs set out ahead of you still, loose PJs donned instead of your jeans. You had the red shirt on though, the one he’d requested you wear -- or instructed. Maybe both.

“Nah, he took -- a truck. Some supplies. Everyone else is accounted for, more or less, so…” Negan pinched at the bridge of his nose, another little almost there smile on his face. “Guess he just fucked off, which is a huge problem for us.”

You wilted, head dropped and your chest heavy. “Why the fuck did he get away?”

There was a shake of Negan’s head, as if he were in disbelief. “‘Scuse me?” He smiled, genial though there was bite in his tone.

“You killed Neil, no issue. He was out on the fence.” You shifted your posture, your arms crossed. “So why didn’t you kill them both at the same time?”

“The shit they were talking about wasn’t bad enough to get them killed, honey, not both of ‘em. Neil’s the one who fired on you, so he got put down. Shaun was locked up for a bit, yeah, some time served for the misbehavior but -- “

“So someone let him go.”

“Shut the fuck up -- “ Negan’s cut across yours, louder than needed given his proximity. “Do not,” he clasped his leather glove, for demonstrative purposes. “Interrupt me, Greer. Just, don’t do it.” He clenched his jaw shut, hand forged into a fist.

You nodded, though you felt you had little choice.

“Good girl. I fucking…” Negan inhaled, as if to calm his nerves. He loosed a laugh into the air, even as the air felt tense. “I fucking _hate_ when people talk over me. I mean like Grade A can of fucking ass kicking for that shit, so just...” he waved a hand, as if to imply that you stay quiet.

You waited, eyes wide though you refused to appear as scared as you felt.

“Shaun was… Look, look, look, my little newbie spy, my _fucking_ labour of love,” he sat at the edge of the bed, to hold your chin between his thumb and forefinger. The sad part was how easy that came to you, that submission. It was defeat, bred into you with how frequent his hands were upon you. Or maybe you were just so lonely here, it felt like a kiss. “We talked, me, Neil, Shaun. I asked what was up, about their feelings towards my leadership. Asked ‘em where their loyalties were.”

“What’d they say?”

“Asked them if they’d kill for me.” Negan smiled, though it was that same hollow smile. “So one of them did. Shaun’s cut Neil up, bled him out, test of _faith_. Th’other…”

You pulled away from Negan, livid. “You gave him a chance?”

“Was supposed to be punishment, not fodder for his sick shit. Hell, the stuff you reported, that’s just men, talking shit -- they’re a bunch of fuckin’ sheep Greer, do you -- “ He tongued his lips apart, livid at you, at the situation. The grip on your chin tightened as he shook his head, eager to shout but so desperate to retain control. “They wanted to fuck Alexandria over, every fucker here does. But Neil shot you, so Neil _had_ to go. Shaun, fuck, I thought Shaun was above this shit. Y’know?”

“No.” You shook your head, eyes wide. “I don’t know.”

“I didn’t fucking tap his ass and send him back out into the Sanctuary. He was locked up nice and tight, but he got out.”

You sunk downward, head low and eyes wide.

You expected some _good_ news. Instead you had Negan, out to forgive Shaun for the awful shit he’d done.

“Based on all that shit, I figure he’s gone to Alexandria. Don’t fucking know what he’s out to prove, but with the missing supplies, the truck… We let the outposts know shit is fucked. The Benson brothers’re out there too with their group, so we gotta hope that they don’t just splinter off to settle their debt.” Negan kept his hand firm on your chin, though he had your attention. “But we cannot have him out there, doing that shit. He knows too much, and he’s dangerous.”

“Going to Alexandria?”

“No, to the fucking North Pole -- of course fuckin’ _Alexandria_.” Negan pinched his lips together, as if you were stupid. “I take half their shit so they’re my people, better or worse -- I’m not gonna have one of my men just turn up and shank the shit outta all their women and children. That isn’t how we do shit, girl, and you fucking know that. We have a system, we have rules -- “

“No, you have a fucking mess.”

Negan looked as if you’d slapped him. There was a long pause, his hand gentle against your chin though he looked anything but gentle. He stared you down for a long moment, and you were reminded again how Negan was scarier when quiet. His hand flattened, to palm the mark on your throat and the base of your neck. “That’s three strikes. Three fucking times.”

“I didn’t know it was a rule the first time… I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

“Forget that shit then -- a fucking mess?” Negan tightened his grip on your neck, not to hurt but to maintain your attention. “You called my home a fucking mess? After I give you this room ‘cause you got yourself fucking shot -- lost two men ‘cause of your shitty report, a girl raped and beaten ‘cause your stupid fucking luck -- ”

The third strike came as a literal one, your hand across Negan’s face. You slapped him, even as you scrunched back and away from him. You tried to tell him to fuck off, but it only came out as a hiss, your eyes narrowed at him. It was all too much, for so little. You had only tried to help, and you’d failed at it.

The sound of skin on skin lingered longer than you expected in the silence that followed. He didn’t seem injured, or upset, just blank. His attention skipped between your hands and your face, even as you curled into yourself.

“What happened to Sunni wasn’t you,” Negan spoke in a tone close to reproachful. “Look, s’been a hard fucking day. Week. People’re pissed about Alexandria, about not doing enough, or too much, and… We’re just fucking losing people Greer. Day in, day fucking out.” He let out a half-laugh, teeth bared. “S’why you aren’t dead now. Can’t keep fixing shit with murder. Not as a first resort. Ain’t a fucking world I wanna run, sweetheart.”

You hesitated, only to scoot further back from him.

Negan watched with a disappointed expression, but he didn’t stop you. His gaze skimmed the room, across the furniture, all until he focused on the edge between the walls and the floor. His brow furrowed, all as he worked out a puzzle that you couldn’t see. “I wasn’t gonna let him live, if -- if that’s your concern.”

“But you did.”

“You want me to just kill every fucker as soon as they do bad shit? He hadn’t done anything to Sunni then. Wouldn’t have been a question, if all that shit had happened before it. S’far as he’d done, he’d talked some shit and he’d chased you to me. Wasn’t thinking straight.” There was genuine remorse in his tone. He snapped his leg out to kick at the dresser in front of him. The trinkets shook, though none broke.

You realized too late how much had changed since Shaun had been captured. Negan had a point, aside from the shots Neil took, Shaun had only expressed a minor discomfort for Alexandria. It suggested a larger plot, to overthrow Negan’s word, but it was only words. How did you punish someone for an action they only spoke of?

Hesitant, you reached out for Negan’s hand. The gesture wasn’t met with _distaste_ , so you took it into your own. You didn’t know what to say, so you remained quiet. It was easier to be quiet around Negan, but that was true of everyone.

That was your problem, you talked too much. You spoke over others when you did try to speak, and you said little of value. All the thoughts swarmed you as you tried to find the right words. But you didn’t _have_ them. All you had was Negan’s hand in yours, and this tension like you’d tried to coerce a lion into softness.

“I promise you,” he began, low and intent, “no one, not a single goddamn fucker is gonna hurt you like they hurt Sunni. Not in my fucking compound, not in my fucking _world_.”

It wasn’t about you, you knew. Not even as he pressed kisses to your knuckles, along your wrists. Negan saw the world as his, from the resources to the people. It’s a gesture of arrogance rather than sweetness that he promised this, though the brush of stubble and soft lips found their way to your neck.

All the logic in the world couldn’t save you from the easy path, the physical. You allowed it, the idle affection, aware that he needed it for whatever reason.

You didn’t want one another, not really. You just didn’t want to feel alone.

There was a knock at the door, accompanied by a gentle voice.

“Stripes, it’s Amiee.” There was a smile in her voice, though she remained on the other side of the door. “I got you a present.”

Amiee had gotten you the best gift yet; sobriety from what Negan had done to you. You shoved at his chest, to push him away from your throat, idle attention paid to the man who acted as your boss.

You had nothing to say to him, which worked well as he offered nothing back. There was just a moment of honeyed whiskey eyes set by yours, locked as you tried to deduce what the fuck his problem was. It was loss and it was the disconnect, but worst of all it was greed.

He had wives he could fuck, why the hell did he need you.

“Find me if you need me,” Negan said, a brush of his hand against your inner thigh. The thin fabric of your pyjamas offered no where near enough resistance to that touch, enough to send sparks down your spine. You watched with distaste as he perked up, as if this lull had never happened. He opened the door with practiced bravado, only to exchange spots with Amiee.

“Hey Stripes,” she beamed, though the smile waned the second Negan vanished. There was a severity to her expression, out of nowhere, her gentle smile replaced with bared teeth and a furrowed brow.  “We have to talk.”


	8. book club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reconfirm, this takes place before Negan and the Saviors corner Team Family, and before Abe and Glenn have been killed. I will be continuing with the show canon as much as possible, though some events may be altered and shown in a different light due to the fact I'll be writing them from the Reader's PoV. (I'm so privately sorry for the Negan/No Negan pattern. I just don't wanna oversaturate the story with him, because he's just very good at getting what he wants and slow burn takes time. But he doesn't. Asshole.)

“What’s going on?” It was easier to be passive, gentle, with Amiee’s worry lined along her brow and frown.

Aimee pushed against you, arms around your neck, her face buried into your hair. She was taller than you, she always had been, but you met the hug. It lasted for a long moment, her breathing uneven and her limbs shaken.

"I'm sorry -- I'm so sorry."

"You okay?"

"Fine, fine," Aimee dismissed, as she peppered kisses against the top of your head. The gesture was close to maternal, and it struck you by surprise. "I'm fine, Tracker, the baby -- it's all fine. You aren't... I heard, Charlie said to me, about Shaun, about you..."

You exhaled, relieved that it one of the few people you knew here wasn't in trouble. After Sunni had turned up in the medical bay... Fuck. The hug lasted a long moment, and if felt like months since you'd had a moment with Aimee. You let it sink in, the comfort of someone who cared and of someone familiar.

"I'm good," you shook your head, your hands bracketed beneath her upper arms to push some distance between you.

"No, I just -- look. Look," she shifted with your prompt, her face twisted with discomfort. "It's my fault, all this, the shit with Negan." Aimee exhaled, her breath shaky and her eyes downturned.

"What shit?" You kept yourself from a deep groan. Your flesh still bubbled red with a response to Negan’s lips -- again, he’d kissed you, and that was worse. "There's no shit with Negan."

"You, being a spy. I was -- "

"Oh, yeah, okay, sure," you rolled your eyes. "That shit."

Aimee wrung her hands over and over, her nails bit down into her dirty hands. "Was supposed to be me, but, I couldn't. And, he asked me, me and Tracker, if we knew anyone who needed some extra points... Someone he could trust. I didn't even say you. I told him, Charlie, a few guys from the runs, y'know, people who could use a gun."

You looked Aimee over, the ex-soldier who bore down on you, intelligent eyes and dark hair. She was stern despite the softness of her embrace, a mix of protective and aggressive. She went on runs with the rest of the Saviors, though that had changed after the news of the baby. She always kept an ear out, alongside you, and she knew how to be quiet. If Shaun and Neil had spotted her -- fuck, they wouldn't have. And even if they'd caught her, she'd have died before she betrayed herself.

You?

You fucking ran.

"So he just... picked me?"

"No, no -- I just, I said I trusted you, right? When he asked about you, and, he did, he asked about you... Fuck. That dinner, I really thought it was just about the baby, and you're a friend. I thought he'd invited you because he wanted to -- like -- " 

"Fuck me? Fuck, Aimee," you laughed, gravelled and low. "Thanks." You rested your weight onto your good leg, your head tipped to the side.

"God, I don't know -- " Aimee grit her teeth. "You shouldn't be doing it, Stripes." She wrung her hands over and over, breath hitched at the back of her throat.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't gonna keep shovelling shit with my hands." You watched as the cracks in her hands popped, blisters formed from the work in the garden and from the grasp of her nails. You snatched her hands so she would stop the wringing, your brow furrowed up at her.

The words sat between you, the admittance that Aimee thought Negan wanted to fuck you, and how she didn't fill you in on that. It seemed like an important piece of information, crucial in this environment. You would have gone to that dinner with a game plan, rather than abashed and confused.

"The baby, look, I wasn't gonna tell anyone, but -- I had to tell the doc, and Negan... He finds out everything," she babbled off, her grip tightened onto your hands. "I don't know how it's gonna go, if I'll even survive it."

You kept your hands in Aimee's, as you pieced together the dinner invitation, that she had said was out of no where. Or, as she'd explained, it was planned. It didn't hurt to hear, and there was no betrayal. She had lied to you about it, out of panic, and then avoided you.

But fuck, you had been offered the role and you had accepted. Maybe not the role that Aimee expected for you...

"I couldn't be around Negan, and, honestly, I didn't expect you to say yes."

"Wow," you snorted, lip curled.

"No, just..." Aimee exhaled, and the space was returned between you. She stepped over to your bed, to take a seat. Her hands sat beneath her thighs, her head dropped back as she looked up at the ceiling. "Sorry."

"Don't," you dismissed, your arms crossed. 

It wasn't as if Aimee had strongarmed you into Negan's service, and the damaged calf was your own issue. The ache was still there, cut through your muscles and just as bad in the other leg. You had to put more of your weight on it, and it caused your hip to ache, and your back and...

Aimee mightn't have made it. Or the baby might not have. You didn't want to think about either outcome.

Negan had said you were an aunt at that dinner, and Aimee had turned away a mission. You hadn't had a chance to question her, but life had shifted in the past week. You scraped your nails across your scalp, your hands fixed to your forehead. The heel of each palm rested against your closed eyes, as you felt the throb of your injuries and your aches. At least you had a fuller picture, of how you had wound up in this position.

"So Charlie knows that Negan wanted a spy?"

"No," Aimee shook her head. "I didn't tell anyone a damn thing, just Tracker, but..." She shrugged a shoulder, to cross her arms. She rested each arm on her thighs, her head dropped down now as she stared at the floor.

You took a seat in the spare chair, the one tucked into the corner. You sunk down into it, the morning light cast through murky windows. You had points, you had a room, you had privacy, but all you wanted was to disappear. You let the silence between you sit once more, as Aimee rested on your bed and the work outside began. If you listened close enough, you could hear the groans of the dead on the distant fences.

The occasional tromp of boots sounded outside your door, which caused a sickened sensation to kick through your core. You worried that it'd be Simon, or Negan, or Shaun, or Charlie, and you began to see the issue. Your room was safer, in that it had a lock, but you were alone. Not now, not with Aimee, but soon it would only be you. What if someone sneaked through the door?

You pushed aside the thought, to begin on breakfast. It took half an hour and a trip to the cafeteria, but it went without a hitch.

The plate of fruit you'd shared with Aimee remained in the sink, stripped clean by you both.

"Tracker is out looking for Shaun."

You sat up straighter, your back against the door to your room. You had let Aimee rest on the bed, her legs sprawled out as you picked through the novels on your shelf. You held a copy of A Clockwork Orange in one hand, several others discarded to the side. They were a mix of hyperbolic romance and car manuals, a mix you couldn't understand.

"I know it's fucked, but... I'm glad it wasn't you."

You winced, brow furrowed and your eyes wider. "It shouldn't have happened at fucking all."

"I know, I know, but if you'd gotten hurt over the shit with Negan, it'd be on me."

"No, it's on me, and it's my fucking fault Sunni's -- " The words didn't even form, as you couldn't break down the event into words. "It's on me, and once my leg is better, I'm gonna go out and find Shaun myself."

Aimee grimaced, and from this angle you could start to see the shift in her figure. It was only slight, the curve where before had been straight. You looked away from Aimee, your eyes focused instead on the books around you.

"We'll get Shaun. Don't stress about it."

"What d'you know about Alexandria?"

Aimee elbowed herself up, to narrow her eyes down at you. "The settlement Negan is after?"

"Yeah."

Aimee was quieter now, her lips downturned. "Took out a group of us, blew them the fuck up... Negan has something planned for them. Gonna be a show of it, sounds like."

You stared at the ground ahead of you, your leg outstretched as you lingered on those words. Everyone here was desperate for revenge, against Alexandria, against Negan. You had to wonder which would break first, their loyalty or their patience. You tossed another novel aside, something too thick with prose and poetry for you to endure. You shifted several books to the dresser above you, along with the fallen trinkets from earlier.

"Don't think he'll kill them," you mumbled, soft-toned and dejected.

"He will."

You rested your hand against the dresser, your eyes focused on the black scuff mark left by his boot from earlier. You heard about scuffle of boots through the compound, heavy steps echoed through the walls. There had to be a plan here, something that Negan was out to orchestrate. You could only hope you'd survive to see it fulfilled. But that left you with a harder question, of what you had here to survive for.

You couldn't run, you couldn't fight...

The afternoon came and went, the light in your room shifted until the dull tint of orange cast across your room. Aimee had taken off for her room, though she wasn't a drastic distance from you. The only conversation that had come up centered around her plans with the child, names, what she would do for points. It was hard, as you'd never thought about kids before. You hadn't wanted them, you hadn't hated them, it was a future topic, maybe, if you met the right person.

Now, it was a potential death sentence. But Aimee seemed happy, like it was something she had wanted.

Your afternoon had turned to the books you'd plucked from your bookshelf, the ones that were of interest. You had another pile, of books you'd give to the library because they were a waste to have. You could hear the distant sound of a radio and of conversation as people tuned into their recreational time.

How the fuck could the end of the world feel so normal? And so fucking dull?

You couldn't stay in here, not with the numbed sensation of your brain as it switched off. You couldn't fall into this trap of comfort.

And you were a fucking spy.

You wrapped yourself up in a scarf, hair tucked away and your scruffiest jacket. There had been one tucked into the trunk at the end of your bed, which held the effects of a man who'd been removed. You hadn't been given the renter's history by Simon or Negan, so who the fuck knew what the deal was.

You locked your door and carried yourself towards the medical bay, with as much control as you could muster. The wound still ached, sure, but it'd been a glancing shot at best.

The staircase down to the medical bay was easy enough to pass through. There were guards here and there, but they met your eye and said nothing. You felt like one had trailed you, but he kept on down the stairs. This left you on your own down the darkened halls, the uneven strike of your heel against the concrete floor.

You saw a white coat in the distance and a girl with dirty jeans and a shirt. You didn't recognize her by any name, but she'd been with Angie; wait, Chelsea. Her name was Chelsea. She had dirty red hair and several scars across the right side of her face. Whatever they'd been in conversation about ended and she bustled past you, no eye contact, no words, just her head dropped low and her breath uneven.

"Carson?"

The doctor softened at your voice, as your approach had been squared and stilted. You let the scarf shift, as you had with the guards, your eyes matched to his.

"You get shot again?"

You scoffed, low and immediate.

"Sorry, no," he backpeddled, his nose wrinkled. "It's just been ah, I never saw you, then I see you more than I'd like, as a doctor."

"Here to see Sunni," you explained, your head tipped to the side. You offered up the vunerability of a girl who wanted to see her friend, as if that was your only concern.

"Right, I... She's not feeling well, as you can imagine," he looked between the door that stood between you and Sunni. "A few minutes, perhaps. Then, look, you should really be resting your leg. Has it been healing?"

"It's great," you beamed, teeth grit against the aches.

"Do you need any more pain killers?"

"Nope."

"They're yours, if you want them," he shrugged. "Negan said as much. He's been very clear -- "

Your eyes slid shut, an exhale pushed out through your nose. It was negligent to ignore free medical supplies, especially ones offered that could help you get past this injury. You didn't want to ache and you didn't want to feel anything, really.

"I'll take a few, sure, just, write some instructions or something so I don't overdo it."

Carson nodded towards the door, a sigh huffed out as he stepped towards the door. "I'll write you some instructions."

The door opened, and on the bed was a drowsy girl with shaky hands. The drowsiness disappeared the second she saw movement, her head snapped towards them and her limbs all frozen. She took in the sight of Carson, her wide, dark eyes fixed on him. After a long moment of assessment she relaxed, a fraction, the shakes returned to her hands. She had some museli bars, and a swollen cheek. The afternoon light cast her in some shadow, but Carson flicked the lamp on in the corner and it all became clearer.

Lacerations were drawn across her flesh, at her wrists and her neck, bruised flesh and a split lip. Sunni held the same level of assurance in her expression and the gentleness to her features, but... It was awful. Not her, never her, but the marks left on her.

You knew she'd been attacked, and the image of her, here, was worse and better than you could explain. She didn't look as terrible as you'd envisioned, but you'd had days to dramatize the details.

Sunni made a sound, low in her throat, but the words didn't come out.

It isn't about you, or what you thought, or how you felt -- fuck how you felt.

"Sunni," you felt the name drawn from you, an exhale, your approach gradual. She reached out to meet you, ginger but welcoming.

"I thought you'd come," she croaked, her voice dry from a lack of use. She continued to mouth around sounds, excuses, jokes, the way she would speak before, but nothing formed. Instead she held you for a moment, only to curl back against herself.

"I'm so sorry, I should have come looking for you, I should have told the guards, or I -- "

"No, no, I don't need you to do this, please," Sunni shook her head, her expression all scrunched. "It's over, done, it's... It's gone."

You felt the air ripped from low in your chest. Gone? When you were this close, you could see the depth of some of the cuts, sustained from either the ties they used to restrain prisoners or a knife, you couldn't say. It's all fucked, and she just... You pushed it aside, your hand against her shoulder, gentle and cautious.

"Heard you got a room," she smiled. "I'll miss yah."

"You deserve it."

"Nah, I'll be good... Um, I'm..." Sunni tongued her lips apart. She sighed through her nose, her attention dropped. "I might be -- looking around. For, someone, to..."

You felt your stomach drop.

"There's a few guys, who go on runs? Jacob, he... He found me, and, I think I'm gonna... He said, if I needed anything, like, protection, he'd look out for me. No more cot, y'know? It'll be good."

Sunni had been attacked, brutalized beyond measure, and her first thought was who she could hide with. Your gut instinct was to offer your room, but Negan would take it away from the both of you. You weren't in a position to tell her what to do, not when you'd been given a room of your own.

"That what you want?" You asked, your voice low.

Sunni laughed, a snorted and dismissive sound. "I guess." You could see the tears at the corners of her eyes, though that could be from the pain as much as the realization. She pushed away the tears, to look at you. "You gotta be safe, Greer."

"I am," you felt a smile hit your lips as Carson handed across the painkillers. "I'm keeping to myself, with Aimee, y'know..."

"I wish I could tell you who t'avoid, but -- Negan came by, asked some questions... S'hard. I don't know -- they're saying it was Shaun. He came by, but, a lot of guys come by. He had the sheets, all bloody, and he was with some guards, something about punishment..." There was a deft shudder and her hand went to her mouth. You stepped back out of reflex, the bubbled bile pushed past her fingers. She snatched up the pan by her side, and all you could do was catch her hair for her.

The sickness passed, but you couldn't press her. You had come here, to ask questions, to gather intel, and it felt awful.

You weren't a fucking spy.

Aimee had been right.

You left a book for Sunni, one of the books from your bookshelf. It was a romance about mermaids, and you hadn't a clue how long she would be in the medical bay for. You had  painkillers though, and felt no better for the visit.

Sunni didn't know who'd grabbed her.

But it had to be Shaun.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a comment, or kudos! Both are appreciated.


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